


The Fix

by peg22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angelo's, Angst, Angst and Humor, BAMF Lestrade, Bathing/Washing, Bathroom Sex, Case Fic, Drug Addiction, Drugged Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peg22/pseuds/peg22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes out to buy milk and disappears. Lestrade fears it's the past coming back to haunt them - Sherlock buried in a bolthole getting high. Mycroft tends to agree. But John believes that Sherlock would never disappear without telling him. </p><p>Set loosely in Series One, before The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Set-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is inspired by The Fix, the ultimate hurt/comfort episode of Starsky and Hutch. (Hutch is addicted to heroin, Starsky nurses him back to health - angst ensues.) The reason I love Sherlock so much is that it is the first series (IMO) to match the intensity of Starsky and Hutch when it comes to two men who cannot live without each other. Stare at each other. Touch each other. When practically anyone who watches 10 minutes of the show (either one) ends up asking, "Are they together?" and really, how can the answer ever not be a resounding YES!?

 

“I’ll get the milk.”

John turned in the doorway. "Now you're just mocking me.”

Sherlock rose from the chair. “No, truly. I could use some fresh air.” He reached for his coat.

“Since when?” John moved back into the room.

“John, I am very capable of going to the market.”

“You know where it is, then?”

Sherlock shrugged into his coat. “I did eat before we lived together. Who do you think did the shopping?”

“I don’t know, Lestrade?”

“Ha. As much as he fancies himself my handler, he has never even bought me a biscuit.”

“Well, if you’re serious,” John walked to the fireplace and picked up a remote control, “I’m going to watch a bit of the game.”

“What game?”

“Any game, really. It’s all in the watching.” He settled in his chair and realized there was no television in the room. “Sherlock, where’s the television?”

Sherlock walked to the door and turned back to John. “I gave it to Mrs. Hudson. We weren’t using it.”

John sighed. “Well, then, buy me a television while you’re out, will you? I’d like to watch the game.”

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck. “So just milk, then.”

“And beans. Oh, and beer. I’d like to have a drink when I’m not watching the game.”

Sherlock smiled and headed down the stairs.

John shook his head. He could always watch the game on the computer.

**********

Sherlock felt the press of the needle before he saw the men. He was able to turn his head so that the bulk of whatever was in the syringe landed in his shoulder, but enough of it found its way into his bloodstream that one push from the man behind him took him to a knee. He struggled, but three sets of hands ( _dark, rough, one long nail on index finger, one tattooed cross on pinky finger, two wedding rings, one chronic knuckle-cracker . . . I can’t feel my lips . . .)_ pulled him across the sidewalk and into a car ( _black, sedan, recently washed, SpongeBob Squarepants deodorizer on the rear view . . . what sense does it make for a squirrel to live in the sea?)._ He felt the seats against his back ( _leather, maybe_ ) and a burst of intense pain in his knee when knuckle-cracker slammed the door into his leg. Another prick in his neck and he knew he got the whole syringe this time. The last thing he remembered was the guy whose lap his head was jammed against, leaning up to the driver ( _wedding ring, SpongeBob aficionado, garlic lover_ ) and growling, “Ne kemi pranuar paketën.” He recognized Albanian, and something about a package, and then he recognized nothing at all.

**********

Greg Lestrade had been sitting on a suspected drugs house in Brixton for two days. Well, sitting in a car a block away. He wished he had declined the assignment. He had a desk full of paperwork and three new detectives to terrorize. Instead, he’d told Donovan he’d take the stake-out so she could go to her cousin’s wedding in Abergavenny.

“It’s an in and out, Greg. Shouldn’t be more than twelve hours. MI5 will do all the heavy lifting. They just need us for back-up – it’s the Albanians.”

That was forty-eight hours ago. He emptied his fourth cup of coffee of the morning and pulled out his mobile. Oh sure, he knew all about the Albanians. He had just wrapped up a particularly nasty run-in with a faction in Essex. Arrested a scary bastard named Isuf Budo who ran upwards of a dozen brothels and drug houses in the southeast of London. They’d finally gotten a tip on the case which had led them to Essex where they’d busted a pretty substantial sex-trafficking operation and as a bonus, Sherlock had stumbled onto sixty kilos of heroin in the basement of the house next door.

Lestrade had been happy for the boost in his arrest stats, but knew Sherlock had been rattled by the discovery. He and John had emerged from the basement, legs dusted with white powder and of course, Donovan couldn’t help but get her digs in.

“Hey, freak, how much you snort before you called us?” to which Anderson chimed in with, “Sherlock, it wasn’t that long ago we were dragging you out of places like this.”

He had shooed them away, but saw Sherlock’s shoulders stiffen at the comments. He watched John look from Sherlock to Anderson, and then to him. He shrugged and shook his head and became very busy in the business of securing two crime scenes. When he looked up, they were gone. He wondered if Sherlock had told John anything about his past drug habits. Anderson could be a pain in his arse, but he wasn’t lying. Time was, it’d be him in the basement, looking for Sherlock. Usually sent there by Mycroft Holmes, to save his brother another time, another police report misplaced for the good of Queen and country. He was glad those days were over.

His phone rang in his hand and he saw John’s number. “Lestrade.”

“Greg, it’s John.”

“Hiya John, what can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Sherlock?”

Greg sat up straight. He hated that question. He hadn’t been asked that question, in that particular way, in quite a long time. And never from John. If anyone ever knew where Sherlock Holmes was, it was John Watson. “I’m on a case, John. Haven’t seen him since Essex. What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s probably ridiculous, but he went out for milk yesterday and he hasn’t come back. I would normally just wait him out, you know how he can be . . .”

“Yeah, I do. He on a case?”

“No.”

“But you said he went out for milk – I just thought that was code for something.”

“No, he really went out for milk.”

“Seriously?”

“I know, and I wouldn’t even be bothering you, but he dropped his mobile at the front door and I know he’s done that before as well, but I don’t know . . .”

“It’s hinky.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve got a hinky feeling about it.”

“Uh, okay.”

Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Like when you enter a building and it doesn’t feel right – may be quiet as a church, but you know there’s something not quite right.”

“Yeah, it’s hinky. This feels very hinky.”

Greg leaned his head against the steering wheel. “Let me get someone to cover me here, and I’ll be right over.”

“Thanks Greg, it’s probably nothing.”

“Yeah, but when it comes to Sherlock – probably is really shite odds.”

“Right.”

“And John, you’d better call Mycroft.”

**********

Sherlock felt himself being lifted. And then dropped. And then kicked. He curled into himself to get away from the blows, and tried to fight through the haze in his mind. He needed to figure out this problem. He’d obviously been kidnapped. It obviously had something to do with the drugs in Essex. He was obviously in a basement. He could feel the damp cement against his back. The boot that caught him just under his ribs was leather. Big – size 11 ½ at least. He rolled to his left and bumped against a table leg. He felt himself pulled from the floor and shoved in a chair. He cracked open an eye. Yes, basement. Three men. Two of the same ones from the car – Knuckle-Cracker and SpongeBob. The new man was older, better dressed. Smelled like haddock. He opened his other eye and saw a kit on the table. A spoon, packets of what . . . heroin, cocaine, crystal methamphetamine? He hoped it was the former, not the latter. As deep as he had crawled into his addiction, he had always stopped at meth – the seductive Christina. He struggled against the arms that had him held fast to the chair. He tried to catalogue every detail of the room, every inch of his captors. He needed to figure out what part of London he was in, if he was still in London at all.

**********

“Nothing you’ve said so far has convinced me.” Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s chair, legs crossed. “My brother has merely slipped down the rabbit hole again. And I for one am not inclined to follow him this time.”

Greg stood in the doorway with his sixth cup of coffee. “I’d agree with you, if John wasn’t so sure.”

“It’s hinky, Mycroft.” John held up Sherlock’s phone. “Mrs. Hudson found his phone on the doorstep.”

“Hinky?” Mycroft smiled. “Colourful use of slang doesn’t change the fact that my brother is-“

“-was,” Greg corrected.

“Was a drug addict. Who will find his way home, eventually.”

John leaned forward in the chair. “Mycroft, I’m going to look for him, with or without your help.”

Greg nodded to Mycroft over John’s head. He knew John had no idea what he was getting himself into. He’d spent the better part of a month once, going from back room to flop house to drug den, looking for Sherlock. But he also believed John when he said this wasn’t just Sherlock bored with life and heading out for some “milk.”

“Can you at least do a basic search, Mycroft? John and I will do the rest. Just throw out a net, see what you catch.”

Mycroft rose from the chair. “I will give you Anthea and access to my data for an hour.”

John stood. “Seriously, an hour?”

“Oh, you’ll discover that an hour is more than sufficient. If he’s out on a bender, you’ll find him.” Mycroft walked to the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

Mycroft left and John walked over to the computer. “Nothing on the blog. Or his website. Where the fuck is he?”

Greg wondered the exact same thing. On his way to Baker Street, he had called in and gotten arrest reports from the last 48 hours downloaded to his phone. Nothing unusual. He called James Kinsey from the drugs unit and gave him notice to look for Sherlock in the usual haunts. Kinsey had been helpful in the past – a good man with excellent discretion. He hoped they’d have some results soon. He wasn’t going to be able to keep John here for much longer. And he didn’t like the idea of taking him out to look for Sherlock. John had no idea what he’d be getting into. And Sherlock would probably have him sacked, arrested, and hanged if he told him.

He remembered the exchange he’d witnessed at Baker Street on the first case they’d worked together. Sherlock had roared up the stairs, full of righteous indignation because Greg had tossed the flat and found the pink suitcase. Sherlock had accused him of breaking in. He’d given it back both barrels.

_“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.” Greg remained calm, sitting comfortably in Sherlock’s chair._

_Sherlock was furious. “Well, what do you call this then?”_

_“It’s a drugs bust.”_

_John whipped around and stared at Greg. “Seriously?! This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"_

_“John . . .” At least Sherlock had the decency to look sheepish._

_John didn’t understand. “I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”_

_Sherlock stood face to face with John. “John, you probably want to shut up now.”_

_John looked at Sherlock. “Yeah, but come on . . . no.”_

_“What?”_

_“You?”_

_“Shut up!”_

Greg was sure that was the last conversation they’d had on the subject. For some reason, Sherlock Holmes had still failed to share a fairly substantial part of his past with John, and Greg was not going to be the one to spill those beans. Yet.

Right now it was the elder Holmes brother he was worried about. Mycroft had breezed in and out just a little too fast, just a little too . . . breezy. He understood if he was tired of this game – waiting for Sherlock to fall off the wagon, over a cliff. Hell, they’d both been tired. But this was different. This was . . .

“You hungry?” He walked over to the computer, where John sat hunched, staring at the screen.

“Uh, no – yeah, yeah, I could eat.”

“Think I’ll walk down to the Chinese – maybe steal a smoke.” Greg put on his coat.

“Yeah. Yeah.” John never looked up from the screen.

Greg nodded to no one and headed down the stairs. When he got out on the sidewalk, he pulled out his phone and thumbed down through his contacts to a number he hadn’t used in a long time.

TBC


	2. The Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to figure out who is holding him hostage and why they insist on pumping his veins full of a delicious concoction. Greg tries to get information from Mycroft.

_If there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it . . ._

Sherlock heard the song on the little radio in the corner and snorted. That’s just what he’d been thinking. As much as he could think. He estimated they had given him four doses of whatever lovely concoction that was making him feel very . . . happy . . . no . . . content . . . no . . . fucking fine . . . yes, that’s it. _If there’s a remedy, I’ll run from it . . ._ Oh, yes.

He was still seated in the chair, his hands bound behind him, eyes covered. The last time they’d come in to dose him, he’d explained to them in no uncertain terms that he’d figured out who and where they were, so they blindfolded him. Like that helped. The cloth alone told him three more things he hadn’t yet sussed out ( _recent visit to Turkey, diabetes, off brand biscuits)._ This had to be the oddest kidnapping he’d ever been a part of. Except for the initial roughing up, they’d left him alone – fed him a bit, gave him water, let him relieve himself. And shot heroin in his arm on a fairly rigid schedule. If his mind could be trusted, and if not his then whose, he’d been in this basement in Essex for about 36 hours. Essex was easy. And the basement was easier. He and John had just been here a week ago. His captors were idiots. But they did have the most delicious heroin . . . definitely Afghanistan. Top drawer. But why? Why not just kill him? Everyone knows the longer one keeps a prisoner, the better the odds the prisoner escapes.Regardless, the boots tramp down the steps, the lighter flares, the pressure of rubber round his arm, the prick, and the only thing he’s ever found to quiet his mind, rushes through his blood and drowns his brain in exquisite relief.

He sat up straighter in the chair and tried to put all the facts in order. Surely John had figured out he’d been kidnapped. He’d deliberately dropped his mobile out of his pocket. Of course there was the chance that John, as well as Mycroft, would think he was just in one of his boltholes. Of course he wasn’t in one of his boltholes. He’d told John he would get the milk. John would certainly be worried if he didn’t return. Mycroft would be more difficult. This wasn’t the first time he’d disappeared. But surely they’d gotten the CCTV footage, seen him being tossed into the sedan. Lestrade had to have connected the dots with the Albanians, who had been quite vocal in their threats to him and John both. If he could just withstand this torture slash carnival ride, he estimated they’d probably come through the door by tomorrow morning at the latest.

He ignored the nudge of concern when he calculated how many more doses he could withstand. Before he fell over the edge into addiction. _Already addicted._ The last time the boots were five minutes late, he’d felt his heart accelerate, his skin vibrating, needing that needle. So what was the end game? Feed him heroin until his brain exploded? _Expensive._ Especially when he knew the Albanians favoured bullets to the head. _Quick and permanent._ What advantage could they possibly secure by keeping him alive and high? Bargaining chip? _Doubtful._ Mycroft would just tell them to keep him, and John’s army pension wouldn’t even cover the drugs they’d already used on him. So what?

He heard boots on the stairs and stopped thinking. Felt the relief in his body, felt the anger that he couldn’t control the relief. He wasn’t going to be able to control any of it after a few more grams. He laid his arm obediently on the table, listened to the preparation, sucked in a breath when he felt the prick. Jerked a bit when he realized this was something different. Heroin yes, but something else. _Cocaine? Speed? Fentanyl?_ His head lolled back as the dose hit his bloodstream. _Ketamine? Fuck._ He followed his mind underwater, hoping John would get here before he permanently lost sight of the shore.

**********

By the time his car had pulled away from the kerb, Mycroft had called Anthea and the head of MI6, who still insisted on being referred to on the phone as Buffy. Irritating, but crucial if he was to have full access. And he needed full access.

He was relieved to get away from Baker Street and begin the processes that would get the intel dissected, deconstructed, disseminated into the bits he needed to find Sherlock. He knew the moment he looked into John’s face that this wasn’t a walkabout. Confirmed his own suspicions when the chatter had taken a manic turn in the last few days regarding the Albanians and Sherlock.

When he’d heard that Sherlock had grown bored at the crime scene and wandered next door, taking approximately twelve minutes to find the stash Mycroft had spent months ignoring, he knew there’d be repercussions. Isuf Budo and his crowd had reluctantly agreed to the loss of the girls only if they were allowed to keep the drugs. He would spend the next six months maneuvering through various proper and improper channels to get it all back to its delicate balance. Part of him wished he could just pay them all off and be done with it.

But then the chatter, and the threats, and he’d had to go dark. Very dark. He should have realized it was not going to be so easy. He was balancing spinning plates on the edge of an abyss. Somewhere along this road, it had gotten very personal. Towards him. And by proximity, towards Sherlock. He didn’t want to admit yet, that his reluctance to act may have been a mistake.

The small red phone in his briefcase buzzed and he frowned. Hardly any of his associates had this number anymore. He kept it mainly as a spare to his spare. Anthea didn’t even have the number. He looked at the caller id and sighed. He was too busy for distractions.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“You don’t sound surprised to hear from me.”

“I guess I have my answer as to whether I was convincing at Baker Street.”

“You weren’t. What the hell is going on?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, sussed that one out myself.”

“John with you?”

“No, I stepped out for a smoke. Which I’ve started again because of this.”

“So he’s not . . .”

“Sod it, Mycroft – where is Sherlock?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. He usually enjoyed the banter with Lestrade. Looked forward to it, initiated it on occasion, when he was bored. Always under the ruse of concern for his brother.

“Gregory . . .”

“Oh fuck, it’s bad . . .”

“No, it’s . . . why do you . . .”

“You just called me Gregory.”

“Sorry, Detective Inspector.”

“Gregory’s fine. But I’m having a coronary here.”

“Sorry. If I must tell you, there is a chance Sherlock has indeed been abducted.”

“Fucking hell. Where is he? Who’s got him?”

“There’s also a chance he has merely gone aground – used the incident in Essex to resume his prior . . . activities.”

“Then why do you think he’s been abducted?”

“At this point it’s mere conjecture. But it would seem that Essex may be the tipping point for both.”

“I knew there was something up – Sherlock “accidentally” finding that drug house. He in on this with you?”

“God no,” Mycroft said a bit too forceful. “My brother managed in one afternoon to undo what I’d been working on for the last two years. Upset a tenuous balance that I am still trying to control. ”

“Don’t tell me you had a deal with those bastards?”

“I cannot confirm nor deny.”

“So what’s the plan? What do I tell John? Are you going to unleash the hounds?”

“Gregory . . .”

“Fuck, not Gregory again.”

“Gregory, there will be no unleashing. You can tell John as much as you think he needs to know.”

“He needs to know it all, Mycroft. It’s John you’re talking about. He’s Sherlock’s . . .”

“Yes, I know. But I also don’t want either of you making my job even more difficult. For now, we’re in a holding pattern.”

“You’re fucking with me, right? A holding pattern?”

“For the time being. I’ll be in touch when I have more information.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be in touch when I find him.”

“I wouldn’t advise . . .”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But I’ve got my own ideas. So I will be in touch when I have Sherlock.”

The line went dead and Mycroft sighed and slipped the phone in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. It would fray the fabric, but he knew he’d need to keep it handy. “Vauxhall Cross,” he told the driver and settled back into the seat. Tried not to notice that Gregory Lestrade’s passionate determination made him feel better by several degrees. He opened the laptop and concentrated on finding a way out of the certain calamity that lay before all of them.

**********

Sherlock felt hands push him forward and a knife sliced through the bands at his wrist. He tipped to the left, almost falling out of the chair. Odd he couldn’t stop himself. ( _shaking, anxiety, dizziness – yes, methamphetamine confirmed)_ He just wanted to crawl back into his cave of bliss, float across the waves, but something kept knocking at his brain. What was it?

He felt the hands lift him by the shoulders and push him down to the floor – ah, no, a mattress. Soft. Sex and death and Ivory Snow. Nice. The knock continued. “Just leave me alone,” he shouted at the knock. The blindfold was lifted and in the shrieking light of the dark basement, a man’s face swam before him.

“We will leave you alone, Mr. Holmes, as soon as you tell us what we want to know.”

Sherlock struggled to form a sentence. What words to choose? The knocking grew louder – probably John forgot his key again. “Mrs. Hudson, let John in . . .”

“He’s fucking insane.”

A new voice. Bulgarian he’d guess. He loved Bulgarian cheese. _Kashkaval, Urdah, Sirene_ . . . “I love your sirene – far superior to feta, regardless of what the Greeks may tell you.”

“Can I kill him now?” The Bulgarian seemed upset.

“Not until he tells us to. But we’re getting nothing out of him now. Go back to the pure dose next go round.” _SpongeBob’s boss_.

“No more for me, thank you . . .” He couldn’t lift his head, but he knew he should. There was something he was missing, something he needed to work out. He felt hands on his arm, a twist of a rubber, and he happily floated back to his cave on the wave coursing through his veins.

 

He woke with a gasp. He couldn’t breathe. The mattress was on fire. He rolled to his left and hit the cement floor, he tried to get up but the flames wound around his ankles, pulling him back to the mattress, melting and steaming and stinking . . .

“Sherlock, come on. Get up.” John. Finally. John had come to save him.

“John . . . I can’t move.”

“You’d bloody well better, Sherlock. You’re going to die soon.” John was laughing. “Very soon. Your brain has already melted. Just waiting for your body to follow. Lestrade’s gone to get the camera. Some of the lads want to record this.”

“John . . . help . . .”

Hands pulled him up to a standing position, but his legs would not hold him. He crumbled to the ground and reached out, looking for John, for anything to hold on to. He heard the laughing again, but it wasn’t John. _Knuckle-Cracker._

“Don’t waste a bullet. He’s so far gone now – he’ll be dead in a few hours. Put him back in the chair.”

“You want me to tie him up?”

“What for? He can’t even walk. Just don’t let him fall. You heard Budo, no more bruises. He’s got to look like what he is – just another junkie.”

Sherlock knew this last bit of information had to be important. His left arm was tugged onto the table and he let his right arm fall to his side. Most of the veins in it had been blown a day ago. Or a month ago. He’d lost track. _Of the tracks._ He snorted and his head fell forward. Now what was it he was thinking about? Oh, John. Where did John go? He was here with the fire and then he was gone. Maybe to get some cheese. _No more bruises. Please, more heroin._ He felt the needle, watched his blood spurt, ( _blood on the tracks_ ) they used to be so careful. His left arm looked like a pin cushion.

He thought for a moment he should fight the fog, struggle to a room in his mind palace that had not been compromised by the concoction. There had been a door he’d passed time and time again, but he didn’t enter. A bit of uncorrupted data in his brain sounded warning claxons whenever he paused and lifted a hand to the knob. But there was nowhere else to go. He had to think. About things. About John. About no more bruises and Albanian gangsters. About John. He ignored the knocking and the claxons and the siren call of the potion, and opened the door.

**********

Greg got back to Baker Street with Chinese takeout and told John everything about his talk with Mycroft. He had Donovan email him the Essex case files. Requested that several similar cases be messengered over to the flat and he and John spent the rest of the night trying to familiarize themselves with the facts. The more they read, the worse it got. Greg knew the Albanians had a choke hold on much of London’s sex and drugs trade, especially heroin. He just hadn’t seen the true scope of the problem. Now laid out in front of him, it was daunting. Scared the piss out of him. No wonder Mycroft had his officious hands all over it.

John sat in his chair, a pile of files at his feet. He was reading a particularly thick one when he stood, and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and landed all over the couch.

“Hey!” Greg dropped the file he was holding.

John turned at Greg. “They’re going to kill him.”

“Why do you say that? What is it?”

John blew out a breath, straightened his shoulders and handed Greg the one piece of paper from the file he hadn’t tossed.

Greg took it from his hand, read quickly and looked up at John. “Fucking hell.”

“They’re going to kill him. It’s what they do. It’s what they always bloody well do.” John slumped back down in his chair.

“We don’t know that.”

“Greg,” John had a tight grip on the arms of his chair, “I think it’s time you told me how you met Sherlock and why you have Mycroft’s private number.”

 

 


	3. Death in a Different Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is lost in his mind palace. John, Lestrade, and Mycroft are running out of ideas.

Sherlock was surprised to find the room empty. A square box, with one window opposite the door, hardwood floors. And music. Soft music came from the walls. _Bach. Concerto for Two Violins. D Minor. Largo ma non tanto._ He relaxed into the music, wandered over to the window, thinking this might be where he’d stored that lovely garden he and John had toured on their way back from that ridiculous case of the twin pie bakers and the stolen spoons in Aberystwyth. _The Case of the Pied Pipers of Pastry – he’d have to remember to tell that one to John._ He looked out and, in that instant acknowledgement of way too late, remembered why he shouldn’t have come in this room. He pressed his hands against the window, tried to slow his breathing, hoping it would all go away. He could feel his brain shredding, layers and layers melting under the weight of what his eyes were witnessing. He was glad he was as altered as he was. His heart would have probably just stopped beating otherwise.

The trees were there, the path, the grass, the water feature. If he could just focus on the water feature. But that’s not how it worked. His mind palace. The image revolved and evolved, so that he was constantly being assaulted by it. Over and over.

John stood in the garden. Dying. First a shot to the head, then a knife to the heart. Sometimes self-inflicted, other times faceless assassins, most of the time it was his mother or Mycroft delivering the death blow. He pounded the window, kicked a pane with his foot. Nothing. He stood watching John being murdered, again and again. Endless loop. Endless pain. Because it wasn’t just the visual experience. John would smile at him every time, sometimes wave. Mycroft would then come up behind him and slit his throat from ear to ear. John would look at him, confused. He’d reach out towards him, like he couldn’t understand how Sherlock could just stand at the window while he was being murdered. Blood would seep, or brains would splatter, or the worst one, John’s eyes just dimmed and he’d pitch forward into the fountain, and Sherlock would feel such an intense pain rip through his chest that it took him to the ground.

Yes, his brilliant, brilliant brain had not only concocted an endless variety of ways John could die, it also catalogued equally endless degrees of emotional pain and fear and regret and guilt. All the emotions he’d so carefully deleted over the years had actually been stored in this room. Multiplying, intensifying, waiting. So that each time John died, Sherlock felt it as if it were happening for the first time. Every time. Dante should take notes.

He crawled to the corner farthest from the window and curled into a ball, his head on his knees, ears covered, rocking. It didn’t matter. The scene outside the window just came in, displayed its bright colour on all four walls. The music turned to Mozart. _Requiem. D Minor. Dies Irae._ He knew outside his mind palace he must be having seizures, or cardiac arrest. In here, in this room, it was just John. And death. And blood. And John. As much as he had tried to ignore it, his mind had figured it out and turned it against him. The one thing Sherlock Holmes could not bear, the only person Sherlock Holmes could not live without was John Watson. And he was afraid it was slowly killing him.

**********

John sat on the couch, empty glass in his hand, staring at the fire. Greg had left about an hour before, wanting to check out some leads at the Yard. He didn’t want to leave, but John pushed him out the door. He needed to be alone, to try to process all the information Greg had reluctantly supplied about those early days with Sherlock. About how Greg had first thrown him cases just to keep him off the streets. How Mycroft had also offered the detective a sizable cheque to spy on Sherlock. How Greg had refused, but still kept an eye out anyway. John was starting to suspect that was actually Mycroft’s plan – get people to do what he wanted, but never pay them a cent. Good plan. Every one of them had fallen for it – Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly – he should ask Mike Stamford some time if he’d ever been approached by a tall man with a ridiculous umbrella.

John had been shocked by some of the stories. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Sherlock did nothing in halves, why would drug addiction have been any different? He wished he’d have been around during that time. Wondered why he thought he could have made any difference. He knew exactly why . . . his chest felt heavy when he remembered that his hand on Sherlock’s arm, eyes locked on Sherlock’s face, had already stopped a hundred bad ideas. He also remembered how Sherlock could raise his chin off the violin, lift an eyebrow and John would do anything he wanted. Fuck, he’d probably be the one to go buy the stuff for him.

He was grateful to Greg. Understood better the relationship between him and Sherlock now. It had always been a bit of a mystery. He had watched Sherlock insult and abuse Greg, mock him in public, never get his name right, but Greg would just shrug and smile, always returning to Baker Street with another case.

_“He just looked so . . . lost. That ridiculous intellect, the ability to see things in an instant whether he wants to or not, well I couldn’t imagine the torment. And he was so bloody young. And so bloody insolent.” Greg had smiled at the recollection of one of the first times they’d met._

_“You have a thing for arseholes?”_

_Greg snorted. “Yes, that had to be it. Maybe I saw a bit of myself in him. Minus the giant ego and the need to take a blow torch to my brain.”_

John understood the beginning had been a bit sketchy. Sherlock had stayed at Greg’s flat for a week once during a wicked case of withdrawal. One night, to get back at Greg, Sherlock invited all types of drug dealers and lowlifes over to the flat, and when Greg got home, he’d spend the rest of the night rousting and arresting anyone who stayed after he pulled his badge.

After that, Greg started bringing his work home, leaving files out for Sherlock to mock and deride, solving most of them in minutes. One night, when Greg realized that Sherlock was jumpier than usual, he took him with him to a crime scene.

_“And the rest, as they say, is history.” Greg downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass._

_“How did your colleagues take to him?”_

_“You’ve met Sally Donovan?”_

_“Yeah, right. So not good from the start?”_

_“Well at first, if you can believe it, he was even more of a prick. Probably from the shakes and the headaches. But no, he and Donovan have never been close.”_

_“I’m sure.”_

_“Actually, Anderson was keen at first. Personally, I think he’s always had a bit of a spark for Sherlock. But you know how Sherlock is – any spark he manages to snuff out but quick.”_

 

John took another sip of whiskey. “Where in the hell are you, Sherlock?” He knew they needed to find him. He knew he hadn’t wandered off to shoot up. He was going to get milk. He wouldn’t have left. “You wouldn’t have left . . . me,” he said out loud and let that bit of undisclosed truth make its way into all the dusty corners of the flat. Their flat. Their life. He felt the emptiness in his bones.

He stood and walked into the kitchen. Stopped at the end of the table, stared at the microscope. “I will never believe you left on your own. Never. And if this is your way of getting out of the shopping . . .” He leaned forward and put both hands on the table. “C’mon, Sherlock, figure it out and come home . . .” He stood up straight and pushed out a breath. It wouldn’t help anyone if he got morose.

He turned back toward the kitchen, but instead walked down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. Stepped in, left the lights off. Walked over and sat on the bed. Stared at the dressing gown draped over a chair, the light from the street striped across the floor. He kicked off his shoes and lay down on top of the duvet, arms folded on his chest, breathing. He stared at the ceiling, noticed how the light and the shadows looked like a constellation. Which one? He certainly couldn’t ask Sherlock. Pain shot through his chest. He got up and grabbed the laptop from the table in the sitting room, came back and spent the next hour distracting himself with solar systems and constellations.

*********

Sherlock felt cold water on his face. Hands pushing and pulling at him. He was no longer in his mind palace, but couldn’t figure out where he was. His heart was thumping so loud, he couldn’t hear anything. His blood rushing so fast, he wasn’t sure he could keep it in his body; it was just going to blast out of whatever hole was made by the pressure. He wasn’t sure he cared. He thought he should. He rose up another level of consciousness and realized he was not in the basement. He was moving. _Conveyor belt?_ What in the world would he be doing on a conveyor belt? He tried to open an eye, but the effort was too much. He tried to remember anything that would help him. He kept seeing John in his peripheral. Why wouldn’t John come closer? His blood was getting hotter. In what felt like the greatest bit of effort he could manage, he opened an eye. _Windows, leather seat, man in jeans. Car._

“He’s waking up.”

He wished he had the motivation to explain to the man that no, actually he was not waking up. He was just spending a brief moment in reality. He wished he could tell them to turn up the air conditioner. His blood was really starting to roll. But he couldn’t be bothered to open his mouth wide enough to make a sound. He saw a syringe in the man’s hand and his body found the motivation. He lurched toward it.

“Hey there, asshole. You’ll get your candy soon enough.” The man pushed him down against the seat.

“Not yet.” A voice growled from the front.

 _(Albanian? British? Human?)_ His brain was too hot. He could deduce nothing. Except that syringe. He could feel it, waiting. If he just had a small dose, a micro-hit, it would clear his mind and he could come up with all kinds of deductions.

“Where then? We’ve been driving too long already. This looks good.” The man twirled the syringe in his hand. Sherlock’s fingers twitched, his mouth watered. Sure sign of acute addiction – he could deduce that.

“Okay then, give him the whole thing. Keep him flying long enough for someone to find him.”

“Dead?”

“No. But if something happens to him out there in the cruel world, what’s that got to do with us, eh?”

Sherlock felt hands on his shoulders, pushing him up into a sitting position. He opened an eye and saw that the man was tying his scarf around his arm. He knew it wouldn’t be tight enough. He’d tried it once himself – a dismal failure. He tried not to stretch his arm out to the man. He tried to remember why they were feeding him a syringe. _Kidnapped. Albanians. John._

An image shrieked through his mind – John’s chest, stained with blood, his body pitching forward – and Sherlock lurched against the door. John is dead. Why didn’t anyone tell him? He shut his eyes tight against the picture of John, falling forward, lifeless. Not dead. Not John.

“Stay still, you fucking tweak. Almost stabbed it in my own arm. Slow down, Tarek, he’s losing it back here.”

The man leaned his body weight into Sherlock, trapping one arm against the door, the other buried between them. Sherlock struggled _(not too much – don’t want to appear ungrateful)._ He turned his head and opened his eyes. John was standing outside the window. But the car was moving . . . how could that . . .

“John . . . please . . . you’re dead.”

“You’re the one who’s going to be dead if you don’t hold bloody still.” The man wrenched Sherlock’s left arm free. “You’ll see your boyfriend soon enough.”

The car stopped moving and the man in the front turned around. “Just stab it in his leg. We’ve got to get out of here.”

The man holding the syringe jabbed the needle into Sherlock’s thigh and pushed the plunger down hard. Sherlock was staring out the window, trying to find John again, wanting to explain that he didn’t know he was dead, that his blood was boiling and his brain was lost somewhere in his mind palace and this man was going to help him. . . the first burst hit his blood, cooling it immediately.His head lolled back against the seat and the man reached over, opened the door, and shoved him out.

He landed on the pavement head first, his legs still in the car. The man kicked his legs free, closed the door and the car pulled away from the kerb. Sherlock lay crumpled on the sidewalk, his forehead against the concrete. He felt like he was floating just above it. The sun burned his neck. He must have gone on holiday. John would like a holiday. Somewhere warm. But not too warm. Might remind John of Afghanistan and Sherlock had spent a considerable amount of time deducing that John didn’t need any more reminders of Afghanistan.

Yes, perhaps a cottage somewhere. He hated cottages. And holidays. He’d do it for John. He owed him. Everything. Well, not technically true. Almost everything. Everything from the cab driver on . . . even before. The phone. He owed him for letting him borrow his phone. And for waiting for him in the rain, and for the acid burns on his jumpers, and for buying groceries. _Milk. There was something about milk. Does John need milk?_ The edges of his brain started to curdle and he knew it wouldn’t be long until it would all blink off and he could float away. The last thing that skittered through his brain was John. Screaming in agony as flames engulfed his body, his face melting off in an instant. Sherlock pitched himself forward, his mind screeching, scratching against the concrete, trying to get to John, to explain, until the blackness took them both.

**********

Greg was at his desk when the call came in. He and John had spent the last two days out looking for Sherlock. John had gotten a crash course in the rotten underbelly of London’s drug scene. They’d run into a couple of tough situations, for which John proved to be a worthy partner, but still no Sherlock. Not a sign. Not a whisper. So far Sherlock had been gone more than a week.

Mycroft had sent over the CCTV footage in front of Baker Street, but it had been corrupted and they couldn’t make out a thing. No Sherlock. Even Mycroft was beginning to sound more irritated than usual, which both John and Greg knew was a bad sign.

Greg had come back to work for a few hours because he needed to work, but also so he could be in place when and if he were needed in his professional capacity. Search and Rescue, Recover and Arrest, Mislead and Distract. Whatever.

He picked up the desk phone on the first ring. Donovan told him the story in three sentences. Man matching Sherlock’s description found wandering in Walthamstow. Uniforms on the scene, waiting for him. Fuck. He was glad they’d found him, but Donovan’s last sentence worried him.

“He’s rough, Greg – they want to call the ambulance.”

“Nobody move, I’m on my way.”

**********

Sherlock knew he should wake up. Or at least ask the gentleman standing over him to use a breath mint _(tzatziki, coffee, gin_ ). _Police officers,_ his rattled brain told him. Thank you rattled brain. He thought maybe it wasn’t the best of indicators that he was talking to his own brain. His blood had cooled to a normal temperature he thought. _Right ho._ Now he knew it wasn’t good that his brain was answering. So was it merely repetition? Synapses stuck in a loop? Or had his mind actually separated from his brain. How was that possible? _Who cares? When's the next needle?_ Where the hell was John? John could figure this out. _Oh, you killed John._ His chest twisted and someone howled. Did he really kill John? How could he have . . . the images came at him again from everywhere. John’s head exploding, John’s throat running red with blood.

“John . . . John . . .”

The men above him ( _or below him or possibly not even there at all)_ pushed him down harder.

“Lestrade said keep him here.”

“Yeah, and when he dies here, who they going to blame? Not Lestrade.”

Lestrade, yes. He needed to get a message to Lestrade. Explain how he didn’t really kill John, it was his brain. _Don’t blame it on me, Sherlock._ But you killed him. _But I’m you. How does that work, exactly?_ You’re not me. You are an hallucination brought on by consistent and substantial doses of heroin, ketamine and methamphetamine. _Whatever gets you through the day._ He couldn’t get his brain to stop talking. _You can’t figure it out because you don’t want to. But you know and we know and soon everyone will know that Sherlock Holmes kills everything and everyone who is stupid enough to get close to him. And John, well John got rather close, wouldn’t you say?_

“Shut up!” Sherlock rose up and felt the hands push him back down.

“Really, Bernie, we’ve got to think about our careers here.”

“Since bloody when, Mark? Maybe you should go find a blanket in the boot.”

Sherlock floated away from the sidewalk and back into his mind palace. He wandered down a corridor, thinking, trying to blow out the fog that had settled into every corner, every surface. He needed more heroin. Surely they would give him more heroin soon. He could feel his blood starting to boil again. He wanted to go away. He wanted John. He wanted to explain. He wanted John. He wanted to disappear. He took a turn down a winding staircase and was gone.


	4. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If anyone wanted to kill Sherlock without actually murdering him, can you think of a better way? ___
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _Finding him solved only a part of the problem. Now they have to save him.__  
> 

Greg was out of the car almost before he put it in park. He saw two men huddled over a dark figure. Bernie Glassman and Mark Harris. They’d finally caught a break. He knew both men, knew they could be trusted, and knew they could be convinced to help him. Well, at least coerced.

“Lestrade, Donovan told us to wait for you but, Jesus, look at him . . .”

The officers moved aside and he got his first look at Sherlock. He was lying on his side, his legs drawn into his chest, his arms around his knees, eyes closed. His hair was matted to his head, his cheek was scraped and bruised, and he wore a thin shirt, no coat. His scarf was wound around his left arm. His breath came in gasps and he was shaking. Greg sank to the ground and tried to pull an arm free. “Come on Sherlock, it’s me, Lestrade – let us help you now.” He managed to get Sherlock’s right arm away from his leg and pulled up the sleeve. And his stomach dropped. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The inside of his arm was a mass of bruises and track marks, many of them infected.

“He’s a junkie.” Mark Harris knelt down beside Greg. “This is what we’re risking our careers over? A junkie?”

Greg turned and grabbed a fistful of Harris’s jacket. “Shut the fuck up, Harris. You were never here, you understand?” He looked up at Glassman. “You were never here, Bernie.”

Glassman nodded and pulled at his partner’s shoulder. “Mark, c’mon. Let Greg handle this.”

“Handle what? We should be pulling him in, not giving him a bloody pass.”

“Constable Harris,” a voice rang out behind them. Mycroft.

Greg shut his eyes for a moment and pulled Sherlock’s shirtsleeve down his arm.

“I do believe Detective Inspector Lestrade has the situation under control. Would you be so kind as to move your vehicle from the area? It’s been designated MI5 and we’d appreciate your cooperation. He looked from one man to the other, “And your discretion.”

Glassman rose and pulled Harris to his feet. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, we’ll get the car out of your way. No worries.”

Greg watched Glassman pull his partner around the corner to their car. He felt Sherlock paw at his shirt.

“Help, please, John.” He could barely speak, was having difficulty breathing.

Greg reached down and lifted Sherlock’s eyelid. His pupils were pinpoints, his skin pale and sweating. “Fucking hell, Mycroft, we’ve got to get him to hospital. He’s toxic.”

Sherlock pulled himself toward Greg, both hands hanging onto his shirt. “Please, find John. Kill John . . . so sorry, so . . .” His hands slipped and he fell back to the ground.

“Sherlock, it’s ok, John is on his way.” He looked back at Mycroft. “Do something – don’t just stand there – help me get him to the car.”

Mycroft stepped aside and three large men in black uniforms stepped forward and lifted Sherlock off the ground.

Greg scrambled to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“Angelo’s. I’ll text you the address. John’s car will take him there.”

“I know the bloody address.”

The men laid Sherlock carefully in the back seat of Lestrade’s car. Mycroft leaned in and covered him with a blanket. Stood for a moment looking down at him, closed the door and turned to Lestrade.

“Drive carefully.”

“Mycroft, he needs a bloody hospital.”

“Absolutely not. You know as well as I do that what he needs is a good dose of clonidine and someone to watch that he doesn’t aspirate into his lungs. Both can be achieved elsewhere.”

“Yeah, but a hospital can get him a rapid detox.”

“And paperwork.”

“Who the fuck cares? He’s been kidnapped for fuck’s sake – it’s not his fault.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Blame is the least of our problems.”

“You mean the drugs? Or is it something else?”

“If anyone wanted to kill Sherlock without actually murdering him, can you think of a better way?”

“Fuck all.” Greg shook his head. Mycroft had a point. Why would anyone kidnap Sherlock Holmes, fill him full of heroin, and then dump him back on the street? It made no sense.

Sherlock kicked the door with his foot and Greg hustled around to the driver’s door and got in the car. “It’s okay, mate. You’re safe now. I’m taking you to John.” Greg waved to Mycroft, who was standing in the middle of the street, a hand shielding his eyes against the sun.

“I didn’t know. . . John . . .” Sherlock moaned and thrashed in the backseat.

“John’s fine, Sherlock. I’m taking you to see John.”

He checked the rear view mirror a hundred times on the way, both to make sure Sherlock was still alive and to see if anyone was following them. It’d be their luck to scoop Sherlock out of the street only to get him killed on the way to safety.

He was halfway to Northumberland Street when he got another call from Donovan. Man found in skip in Walthamstow - one to the forehead, two in the knees. Wrapped in Sherlock’s coat, a few thousand pounds worth of heroin stuffed in the pockets. Donovan said two radio cars were on their way to Baker Street.

“Who is it, Donovan?” Greg checked the rear-view mirror again. No sound from the backseat. “And how the hell did they connect the coat to Sherlock?”

“Credit card in the pocket. It’s John, Greg.”

Greg slammed on the brakes, felt Sherlock’s body slam against the front seat and back onto the back seat. “Say again?” He pulled over.

“John. John Tahiri.”

 _Oh, fuck_. Not John Watson. _Jesus_. He knew Donovan did that on purpose – gave him a bloody heart attack. “John Tahiri?”

“The detective who was point on the Albanian sting operation? Been undercover with them for two years? Come on, Greg – it was his work that shut it all down last week. You think this is coincidence? Finding him in the freak’s coat?”

 _Fuck fuck fuck._ Greg pulled slowly back into traffic. “I have no fucking idea. Send me everything they’ve got to my phone. I’ll call you when I’m out of the car.”

“Greg, if it’s him, you know you have to bring him in.”

“Yeah, Sally, I know. Let me make sure he’s not going to die tonight and then we’ll figure it out.”

 

He pulled around the alley behind Angelo’s, got out and pounded on the door. Two men came out, followed by Angelo. “Ah, Lestrade, you have our package?”

Sherlock thrashed in the back of the car. “No packages . . . don’t tell . . . can’t . . . John . . .”

Angelo peered into the car. “Poor Sherlock. Demons got him again?”

“Looks like it, Angelo.”

Angelo stepped aside and let the men lift Sherlock out of the backseat. “We’ve got your room ready, Sherlock. Don’t you worry.”

The men carried Sherlock into the restaurant.

“Worse I’ve seen him.” Angelo shook his head. “Such an awful waste.”

Greg followed the men through the restaurant and up the stairs. Opened the door at the top and the men took Sherlock into the room and laid him on the bed. Greg walked in and had a nasty moment of déjà vu. The room was exactly the same. Bed, bureau, two chairs and a small table. Chess set in the middle of the table, game ongoing. A door which he knew led to a small bathroom. A bright blue rug covered the scratched hardwood floors. There was a small refrigerator and hotplate on a table in the corner. He imagined the cup and saucer next to it still had his fingerprints on it. He’d spent too many nights already in this room. Watching Sherlock detox. Watching Mycroft pace for hours, running the British government from his mobile and two laptops. Watching Angelo provide them with lunch and tea and chocolate – “only real cure boys, chocolate and coffee. And time.”

He walked over to the bureau where Angelo had already left sandwiches and a carafe of coffee. Laid out next to it was an IV bag, needles, tape, vials of stuff he couldn’t pronounce, a syringe of adrenaline – that he knew how to use – had used on at least two occasions. Sherlock’s heart had a nasty habit of stopping in the middle of withdrawal. Usually in the middle of the night when it was just he and Greg, wrapped together, Greg trying to keep Sherlock’s body temp from heading south, Sherlock kicking and clawing, bruising Greg’s arms and thighs, all in an attempt to escape whatever nightmare the exiting drug was causing in that incredible mind of his. He knew to just punch the syringe into his chest, accuracy be damned, fuck all and hang on.

He covered Sherlock with a blanket, relieved to see he was still so hopped up on whatever stuff they’d fed him, he was feeling nothing at all. Greg slumped into the chair and wished he felt the same.

**********

John was in hell. First the car was headed to Essex, but the driver answered a phone call half way there and turned around. Said they were heading to Northumberland Street.

He tried Greg on the mobile but it went to voicemail. Tried Mycroft and Anthea answered.

“Where’s Mycroft?”

“He’s in the field, John. Told me to tell you it’s all fine and don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? Bloody hell.”

“John, if it makes a difference, Mycroft never tells anyone not to worry unless there’s really nothing to worry about.”

“Swell, thanks, I feel so much better.”

The car finally stopped at the front of Angelo’s, the restaurant where he and Sherlock first had, well, _he’d_ had dinner. First talked about things. Things not of a case. Where John left his cane and ran after Sherlock all over London. They’d only returned once – an anniversary of sorts. Angelo had certainly treated it like an anniversary. Two candles, a booth in the back, two bottles on the house. Sherlock had actually ordered food. They drank too much wine. Shoulders knocking happily together, celebrating their good fortune in the last two solved cases, their even better fortune to have found each other – Sherlock had proposed a toast to the most formidable crime solvers since C. Auguste Dupin.

_“Who?”_

_“Dupin – Poe’s famous detective.”_

_“Nope, still nothing.”_

_“Surely you’ve read The Purloined Letter?”_

_John blinked twice. “Oh, Poe – Edgar Allen Poe? Telltale Heart, quote the raven, nevermore? That Poe?”_

_“I suppose. I once used Dupin’s methods to solve a sticky wicket in Staffordshire.”_

_John snorted. “Okay, but I’d prefer Starsky and Hutch.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Crime fighters from the 70s. Cool car. Very cool car.”_

_Sherlock leaned unsteadily on his elbows. “You want us to get a car?”_

_“No I just liked their car. Red, white stripe . . .”_

_“Sounds ghastly. And completely unsuitable for detecting. I prefer cabs.”_

_“Yes, look where that’s got you . . .”_

_They laughed and drank and Angelo called them a taxi and they stumbled into 221B, up the stairs, waking Mrs. Hudson, who, despite a warning about eviction, smiled and closed the door behind them. They made their way into the living room, still fighting over the best car for undercover work, and Sherlock pulled John down the hall into his bedroom, kicked off his shoes and fell onto the bed. John stood, hesitant, until Sherlock pulled him down beside him. They slept on top of the blankets, fully dressed, Sherlock’s arms and legs wrapped around John. Mrs. Hudson crept upstairs and turned off all the lights._

Angelo met John at the front door, led him upstairs. John walked into the room and saw Greg slumped in a chair. Greg nodded with his head toward the bed and John turned to see Sherlock sleeping, covered with a pink lace quilt. His knees gave out and he stumbled into the chair next to Greg.

“He’s sleeping.”

John nodded. “What happened?”

Greg sighed. “Fuck if I know. Been sitting here trying to map it all out.”

“Is he . . . high?”

“As a bloody zeppelin. Mycroft best get here soon, we’re going to need that clonidine.”

John stood, walked over to Sherlock, pulled his arm out from the blanket, felt his pulse. His sleeve crept up his arm and John gasped and he turned to Greg. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’ve got to get him to hospital.” He opened Sherlock’s left eye. “Jesus, Greg.”

Greg got up and stood by John. “I know. But for the time being you’re going to have to forget about hospital.”

John shoved the blanket aside. Pulled up Sherlock’s shirt. Laid his hand and then his head on Sherlock’s chest. “His respirations are shallow, his eyes are pinpoints, he’s cold and clammy. Greg, call a fucking ambulance. Or I will.”

“No, John. It’s not that simple. And we’ve done this before.”

“Done what before.”

“Been here, done this. The drugs, the detox. Why you think Angelo’s so bloody accommodating?”

“But they could help him . . .” John kept his hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Monitor his heart.”

“So can we. You think hospital is the best place for him when he really starts to come down from this?”

“But he’s unconscious.”

“In and out. Can’t really start anything till he crashes. Keep him warm, on his side, monitor things. Which is what we’re doing.”

John stood and faced Greg. “What the hell happened to him?”

Greg scrubbed his face. “It’s sketchy. Uniforms found him on the street. Called me. I called you. Now we're here. Where he’s been the last week is still a mystery. Well, we have a good fucking idea where, but we still don't know why - another reason we can't move him to a hospital.  And how did he get away? Doubt he escaped in this condition.”

John pulled a chair close to the bed. Took Sherlock’s hand from under the blanket. Checked his pulse. “How are you getting clonidine?”

“How do you think? Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?”

“He’s done this before too, John.”

John looked down at Sherlock, wiped his hair from his forehead, and touched the bruise on his cheek. Felt the tremor in his hand even in sleep. _What the hell happened to him?_ He pulled up the sleeve again. Winced at the damage. The infection. “He’s going to need antibiotics. Anti-nausea meds at the very least. Mycroft supply those, too?”

“Nah, we were hoping you brought your prescription pad. Think I’m coming down with an infection – probably bronchitis, influenza.”

John never took his eyes off Sherlock. Willed his chest to keep rising and falling. “Influenza’s a virus. And the anti-nausea meds he’s going to need are at least a level two. Just how far outside the law are we going on this?”

“Far as he needs.” Greg put a hand on John’s shoulder. “He’s here, John. That’s most of the battle. He’s breathing.”

“Well that’s certainly a good sign.” Mycroft walked into the room, carrying a large box, umbrella hung on his arm. “Here, John. You’ll know what to do with this.”

John took the box, set it on the table, and opened the top flaps. Roller clamps, drip chambers, vented spikes, t-connectors, sodium chloride, glucose, electrolytes. He felt sick. Sherlock should be in a hospital, not here, where anything could go wrong at any time.

“How is he doing?” Mycroft asked.

“He needs a hospital. And buprenorphine is more effective than clonidine. And you’d know that if we were in hospital!”

“He has a doctor.” Mycroft stood next to John. “A doctor who has seen many a makeshift surgery I would imagine – heat of the battle, pocket knives and pencil sharpeners.”

Greg joined the other two. “So, why, Mycroft? Surely you’ve figured it out by now.”

Mycroft sighed. “Sadly yes. And no.”

Greg shook his head. “Not good enough. Even Sherlock’s homeless network could have sussed this one out. It’s Budo – you know bloody well it’s Budo.”

“Stop it.” John turned around, his face red, his arms straight, fists against his legs. “I don’t give a fuck how or why or whatever the bloody hell you did to let this happen, Mycroft, but we are taking him to hospital, NOW.”

“S’alright, John . . .”

John’s head whipped around at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

“Just need . . . top-off . . .”

John took Sherlock’s wrist, lifted an eyelid. “Sherlock, do you know where you are?

“Hello . . . are you dead?”

“Not yet. Are you experiencing any pain?”

“Am I dead?”

John frowned. “No. We’re both alive. Do you remember anything?”

“SpongeBob . . . cheese . . . more, please.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Just a little more . . .”

John turned to Mycroft. “Please, Mycroft. If he’s in a hospital, we can get the drugs out of him and start a rapid opiate detox. I know even you can’t get naltrexone so easily, if he’s even a candidate – who knows what he’s full of. At the least he needs to be sedated before the worst of it starts.” John didn’t want to think about how much worse it was going to get.

Mycroft walked over to the bed, leaned down and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, do you want to go to hospital?”

Sherlock struggled under the blanket, shook his head. “No hospitals . . . John . . .dead . . .”

Mycroft turned to John. “See? No hospitals.”

John pushed close into Mycroft’s face. “We don’t even know what they gave him.”

Greg moved in between them. “We’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“Heroin. Ketamine. Christina. Cheese. . .” Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft stepped back from John. “I will make you a deal, Dr. Watson. I have people at the ready. When and if Sherlock requires more than what you can provide, we will take him to hospital.”

John closed his eyes. He fought the instinct to push Mycroft out the window and drag Sherlock down the stairs himself. But then he remembered Greg telling him about the last time, and the time before and the time before – but Ketamine? Christ, how was he supposed to detox Sherlock in this little room, with Greg as his nurse and Mycroft as what? Tea-trolley girl?

“I’ll give you 24 hours. You figure out who did this and why. But if he’s still in this kind of distress,” he nodded toward the bed and all three men looked at Sherlock, thrashing under the little pink coverlet, “I’ll carry him there myself.”

Greg and Mycroft looked at each other. Greg nodded and Mycroft sighed. “As you wish.”

John pulled the chair closer to Sherlock’s bed. Took his hand, felt his pulse, noted his fingers were warm. A good sign in a body full of bad signs. He felt some of the bone-crushing stress he’d been carrying around for the last week slip off his shoulders. At least they’d found him. At least he was alive. Tangible flesh and blood. At least he knew how to do this. Keep the soldier warm, comfortable, hydrated – alive – until the helicopter or the transport came, or their position got overrun. Treat the pain, treat the injury. Treat the patient. He watched Sherlock’s chest rise and fall, matched his own respiration with it, willed him to be okay. Greg put a hand on his shoulder, startled him.

“Mycroft’s buggered off. Hopefully to catch the bastards that did this.”

John nodded, never taking his eyes off Sherlock.

“I’m going to pop out for a bit. He’s out for a while, I think. I’d like to take a run at a couple of skels. You okay for now?”

John nodded again. Of course he wasn’t bloody okay. But did he have a choice? He was a soldier. He could keep watch. He was a doctor. He could heal. So why wasn’t he watching when Sherlock needed him the most? Why was it always his job to patch them up _after_ they’re broken? After the shrapnel had torn them apart? After a needle had stripped him down to a shivering mess?

He stood up, set his shoulders back, turned to the table and began setting up the IV. He hoped they’d left him at least one vein to work with.


	5. The Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wonders if they'll survive detoxing Sherlock. Greg wonders if they've already paid too high a price. Sherlock is miserable and Mycroft is calling in every favour he's got.

Sherlock was cold. So cold. _Ice cold. Cold as ice_. He longed for his blood to burn again. Knew that something was different because no one was giving him a needle. No one was taking care of him. He was too cold. He heard an awful chattering and realized it was his own teeth _. Molars, incisors, splintered._ He slipped his tongue between his teeth to keep them from knocking together and only succeeded in biting his tongue. _Blood._ At least it was warm.

“Sherlock, you’re bleeding.” _A voice. No, wait. The voice. John._

“John . . . cold . . .”

John’s face appeared before him. _A vision? Hallucination. Ketamine withdrawal?_

“I know you’re cold, but you’ve got every blanket on you. Give me your hands.”

“C-c-c-c-ooo . . .” Sherlock pulled a hand out from the blanket and John grabbed it between his two hands. “Ah . . .warm . . .”

“Yes, well, doctor hands.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. _John is warm._ “Need you. Blanket.”

“We don’t have any more blankets. Angelo’s gone to get-”

He pulled John’s hand toward him. “No . . . you . . . blanket.”

John frowned and then his eyebrows rose. “Should have thought of that. Leave it to you to be out of your mind and still the smartest one in the room.”

John stood and stripped down to his t-shirt and underwear. Sherlock watched him, shivering, teeth chattering. John lifted the cover and Sherlock gasped. “Cold . . .”

John crawled in beside him. “Scoot down a bit, you’re too tall.”

Sherlock moved and John pulled him into his chest, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, the other across his chest, pulling him closer, his leg over Sherlock’s thigh. Tugged the blankets over them.

“Okay?” John rubbed his back.

Sherlock turned a bit and buried his head in John’s neck. Okay for now. He was glad that John was warm even when he was dead . . .

“Dead . . . you’re dead . . .”

John pulled him closer, his face in Sherlock’s hair. “Worried to death maybe. You just lie here and think about something nice. Surely there’s a place in that brain of yours where you keep the good parts.”

Sherlock pushed hard against John. “No! No . . .can’t go . . . no.”

John pulled Sherlock closer, rubbed his back, whispered into his hair. “S’okay . . . I’ve got you now. No one can hurt you. Just relax, Sherlock.”

Sherlock knew there was something he should remember, he should deduce, he should . . . John’s heat slipped into his chest, warmed his blood. The drumbeat behind his eyes quieted and his teeth stopped chattering. He let out a sigh and fell asleep.

 

**********

 

Greg had discovered three things while talking to four bobble-headed junkies and two detectives. Budo had definitely snatched Sherlock. It was definitely connected to the drugs bust in Essex. And the last bit, the bit that had him stalking a black Jaguar sedan parked at the entrance to Hyde Park, was the worst. A deal had been struck – apparently some 007 had given up John Tahini in exchange for Sherlock’s release. Greg knew exactly who they were talking about.

He hammered the backseat window and watched it slowly open.

“Gregory . . .” Mycroft drawled from the backseat.

“Don’t you start with me. I know what you did.”

Mycroft opened the door. “Perhaps we should have this conversation in here.”

Greg reached in, grabbed the front of Mycroft’s shirt and dragged him out of the car. Closed the door with one hand and pushed Mycroft against it. Mycroft managed to get a hand free to stop the men who were barrelling down on them, to save him or kill Greg, it didn’t matter. The men melted back into the scenery.

“You fucking sacrificed him,” Greg growled.

Mycroft tried to push off Greg’s chest but he just pushed back harder.

“I did what was necessary to insure Sherlock’s safe return. Isn’t that what we were all working towards?”

“You bastard. Did you even know his name?”

“Would it bring him back if I did?”

Greg’s head was next to Mycroft’s ear. “You can’t be this cold.”

“I can – when it suits you.”

Greg let go of Mycroft’s shirt and took a step back. “Suits _me_?”

“Yes. You. I don’t recall any moral indignation when you asked me to find Thomas Hardington.” Mycroft brushed his shirt, straightened his suit coat.

“Fuck you.” Greg knew he’d lost. Thomas Hardington was the prime suspect in a string of homicides in Brixton last year. They’d had him dead to rights and he’d gotten off on a technicality. Three weeks later, two more bodies showed up in a skip. Greg had turned in a chit and gone to Mycroft for information. They found Hardington dead in the same skip the next day. No questions asked. No answers needed.

“Fucking hell, Mycroft.” Greg moved beside him, leaning against the car, hip against Mycroft’s.

“I am sorry it had to come to this.”

“Are you going to give me any real answers here?”

Mycroft turned a bit, touched Greg’s shoulder. “Can we do this inside?”

Greg looked at him and nodded. He opened the door and they got in the car.

“Take us back to Northumberland Street,” Mycroft said to the driver and then turned to Greg. “I can bring your car round later?”

“Yeah. We should get back.”

Mycroft looked out the window. “Indeed.”

“So, are you going to fill me in? What the fuck happened?”

Mycroft sighed and turned in the seat. “You know what happened. You already guessed about Budo - we’ve been negotiating quietly with his organization for some time. He agreed to the arrest only with several conditions, three of which you and my brother destroyed in one afternoon.

“But why snatch Sherlock? Why not go after you?”

“Budo also has a younger brother – Tarek – who managed to escape your raid. Apparently Budo decided that his brother should take care of my brother – honour killings are not uncommon in his organization.”

“But they didn’t kill him.”

“Didn’t they?” Mycroft looked out the window.

Greg reached over and put his hand on Mycroft’s thigh. “He’ll survive this. He’s a stubborn bastard – he’d never let a common criminal get the best of him.”

“Your optimism is . . . encouraging.”

“I know your brother.”

“Yes, well, I also know what happened the last time . . .”

“Yeah, but he’s got John now.”

“Let’s hope that it will be enough.”

Greg sighed, pulled his hand away from Mycroft and ran it through his hair. “It’d better be.”

They barely spoke the rest of the way. Mycroft answered two phone calls – Tarek Budo was no longer taking orders from his brother and a new price had been put upon Sherlock’s head. The same price had now been extended to John. Mycroft’s hands flew over the keyboard, his mouth a tight line.

When they arrived at the alley behind Angelo’s, Greg got out alone. He came around to Mycroft’s window.

“You sure about this?” Greg leaned down, face to face with Mycroft.

“Yes, Gregory. I am sure. I will be in touch.”

Greg watched the car drive away and walked into the restaurant. Waved to Angelo and headed up the stairs. It had been about eight hours since they’d found Sherlock and he knew it was only a matter of time before the withdrawal would kick in.

He opened the door and looked over to the bed. John and Sherlock wrapped like pretzels, sleeping. He was glad to see it. Sleep would become a precious and impossible commodity soon.

John opened his eyes and looked at Greg, but didn’t move. He mouthed the words _, he was cold._

Greg nodded and mouthed, y _ou okay?_

John nodded and Sherlock stirred. Tried to bury himself deeper into John’s chest. Suddenly Sherlock turned, flung his head over the side of the bed and retched. Greg moved quickly, grabbing a bin and a towel. John held onto Sherlock’s shoulders as he continued to empty his stomach over the side of the bed. He finally turned onto his back, eyes closed, breathing hard.

Greg handed John the towel, brought over a clean bin and cleaned the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” John said.

“Oh yeah, this is my part in the panto. You think Mycroft ever got within ten feet?”

John smiled a bit. “Right.” He pulled the cover back over Sherlock, who had started to shiver again.

“Take deep breaths, Sherlock. Slow and deep.” He placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest. “I should start the clonidine. It’s been at least eight hours.”

Greg nodded. “No way is he keeping a pill down now.”

They worked together. Sherlock barely moved – only registering their presence when he felt the needle prick of the IV in his hand.

“Finally,” he slurred and held out his arm.

John froze. His hand kept the needle in place as Sherlock stretched his arm toward John’s chest. He looked up at Greg.

Greg reached around and held Sherlock’s arm still, patted his shoulder. “Not this time, mate.” He turned to John. “S’okay, John. He won’t remember any of this.”

John nodded, still staring at Sherlock’s face. Greg knew Sherlock had the better end of the deal. These nightmares would be with John for a long while.

After the IV was in to John’s satisfaction – they had lightly strapped Sherlock’s arm to the bedpost – Greg led him to the table and handed him a sandwich. John took the sandwich and moved a chair closer to the bed. Greg brought the other chair over and joined him. Filled him in on the latest details – sure John didn’t register a bit of it, he was too busy watching Sherlock’s every twitch, every breath.

Greg laid his hand on John’s thigh. “It’s only going to get worse, you know that.”

“Of course I do.” John straightened in the chair. “I have seen this before.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, but Sherlock is . . .”

John didn’t answer, because Sherlock heaved himself up in bed, thrashing and tearing at his arm. Both men leaped from their chairs – John threw himself over Sherlock’s body, trying to grab Sherlock’s arm before he could tear out the IV.

“Get the sedative from the dresser.” John held Sherlock’s arm tight to his chest. “Sherlock, calm down, you’re going to rip out your IV.”

“Get off me,” Sherlock struggled against John. “I need to get . . . off . . . of . . . here . . .”

Greg brought the syringe over to John, who had now straddled Sherlock, his knee holding Sherlock’s right arm, both his hands holding onto his left.

Greg flipped the cap off the needle and held it out to John.

“You do it. Put it right into the IV.” John moved a bit so Greg could get close to Sherlock. Greg closed his eyes, took a breath and stuck the syringe in. Sherlock stopped struggling for a moment, only aware of the needle.

They stayed still for a moment, Greg and John hoping the worst was over, Sherlock deciding what chemical had just been plunged into his body.

“No . . .” Sherlock wailed and thrashed against John. “Not right . . . not right . . .”

John held on. Greg joined him, taking Sherlock’s other arm and holding it fast to the bed.

“He’s got to be feeling that by now – I gave him the whole thing.”

Suddenly, the arm Greg had been holding went limp. He and John both looked at Sherlock, at each other, back to Sherlock. They stayed still for another minute more. When they were both satisfied he was truly out, they crawled off the bed. John rearranged the IV, held Sherlock’s arm tight against his chest as Greg wrapped bandages around the arm and the chest, holding the IV in place.

Greg went to the fridge, pulled out two beers. “Beer?”

John nodded and took the bottle. They moved back to the chairs.

“How long will he be out?”

John sighed. “A normal patient? The rest of the day. Sherlock and his idiopathic metabolism? Who knows? A couple of hours I hope.” John grabbed a chart from the table and began recording the events of the past half hour. Greg checked his mobile. Surely Mycroft would call soon.

The day moved into night moved into day. Sherlock moaned, thrashed, retched, shook. John monitored, medicated, comforted, and meticulously recorded every moment, every movement, every milligram. Greg took his turn keeping Sherlock calm, keeping him hydrated, keeping him in the bed. Keeping him alive.

 

 

Twenty four hours later Mycroft called. No good news. He sent three more men to Angelo’s, one of whom parked himself outside their door after handing them two Browning 9 mms with ankle holsters. John barely noticed, but it took Greg’s blood pressure up a few notches.

Greg finally convinced John to rest a bit. John agreed and slid in beside Sherlock, careful not to wake him. Sherlock moaned again, lost in some nightmare. John laid his hand on Sherlock’s chest and rubbed lightly, whispering in his ear. Sherlock moved toward him, his moans turned to sighs, his body unclenching. John let out a breath as Sherlock head rested on his shoulder, finally quiet. Greg smiled – John Watson as methadone. They could have used him the last time. He shoved two chairs together, grabbed a beer, and settled in to watch over them.

 

**********

 

_Even in his dreams, Sherlock knew something was wrong. He had been experimenting with the length of time bacteria could remain alive in rainwater (a recurring and usually very pleasurable dream) and then the rainwater had turned to an ocean wave and knocked his entire kitchen into the Thames. Where he had been rescued by Turkish police officers, who took him to Cairo and had locked him in a cell with John. John wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t look at him, just kept singing the national anthem of the United States over and over in an odd falsetto._

_Sherlock gave up trying to unravel the dream, and just sat in the corner, picking at a scab on his arm . . . his arm . . . his . . . fuck._

_He suddenly found himself strapped to a bed, naked, John standing above him, holding a syringe._

_“You want this, don’t you Sherlock?” John smiled. His chest felt tight. John’s smile caused that particular sensation quite regularly. Sherlock nodded._

_“Well too bad, mate. It’s all mine.”_

_John stabbed himself in the heart with the needle. Sherlock watched as he smiled and then frowned, clutching his chest, blood pouring out of his ears, his eyes. He pitched forward and fell on Sherlock’s chest. Dead. Sherlock tried to get him off him, to get up to get help. He felt arms pulling at him, shaking him. Shouting. . ._

“Sherlock, wake up! Open your eyes.”

John, talking. Not dead. Or dead and talking. He opened one eye. John was above him, frowning. Sitting on his chest, which was making it hard to breathe.

“Can’t breathe . . .” Sherlock wheezed and tried to move his arms.

“Stop moving then, and I’ll get off.” John looked to his right. “I think he’s waking up.”

Sherlock looked over and saw Greg Lestrade headed for them with a syringe. “Yes . . . please.”

Greg frowned and turned back to the table.

“No . . . need . . . John . . . need. . .”

He watched John close his eyes and take a breath. Waited for him to die again. Maybe this time Lestrade would shoot him. Or strangle him. Maybe John would just spontaneously combust. He closed his eyes just in case.

He felt John move off him. He opened his eyes. “Go ahead and die.”

“Sherlock! What the hell?” Greg Lestrade came back into his view.

Sherlock opened his eyes wider. Struggled up to an elbow. Took a good look at his surroundings. Dingy curtains, bad mattress, overwhelming smell of garlic, wheeze of a decrepit furnace. Angelo’s? He was at Angelo’s?

“Sherlock, you okay?” John’s face blocked everything else.

“Angelo’s? How long?”

John smiled. “Finally. Yes. Three days now.”

Three days? Three . . . bits and pieces began flying at him. Black car, blindfold, SpongeBob, heroin . . .

“Kidnapped?” He felt John finger his arm, realized he had an IV.

“Don’t worry about the details, you need to calm down. Your blood pressure’s a bit dicey as it is.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm. “Heroin . . . you gave me heroin?”

“Fat chance of that.” Lestrade’s voice came at him in a wave. “John’s been pulling you off it.”

Pulling me off . . . Sherlock grimaced as every minute detail of the last two weeks came flooding into his brain at the same time. He curled up against the assault – the drugs, the pain, the drugs, John dying . . .

“But you died . . .”

John took Sherlock’s hand. Put it on his chest. “Nope. See, still beating. Now think you can handle some water?”

Sherlock nodded, watching as John walked over, got a glass of water and brought it back to him. He took a sip, which seemed to make John very happy. He took another. Which made him feel a bit sick. He didn’t care. John was not dead. Unless this was still a dream.

“I’m not dreaming.”

John chuckled. “No Sherlock. You were kidnapped. Greg found you. Brought you here. We’ve been detoxing you for a couple of days. You might be disoriented for a bit, probably from the ketamine, but you’re not dreaming.”

“You’re not dead.” Sherlock closed his eyes, ignoring the thrum of his blood, already searching for relief, now that he was conscious and able to ask for it. He gripped the sheet in his fingers and willed himself not to ask.

“I need . . .” His willpower was weak.

John frowned. “No, you don’t. You’re on clonidine – it may be unpleasant for a bit, but you can do it.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm tight. “No, I can’t . . . I need . . . I need.”

“No, you don’t. You haven’t had anything in 36 hours . . .”

36 hours? No wonder his head was exploding, his eyes were popping out of his head. Of course he needed it. What kind of idiot would deny him when it was obvious he would die if he didn’t get it . . .

“ _Now_ , John. Unless you want me to die. Is that it? You want me to die?”

“Here we go,” Greg said from across the room. “Sherlock, leave John alone. You’re not getting anything from us, so save your breath.”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock rose up in the bed. “You are not relevant.”

“Sherlock – stop it.” John came back into his view, pissed off from what Sherlock could tell. “I know this is not going to be easy, but don’t take it out on Greg – he saved your bloody life.”

Sherlock watched John stick a syringe into his IV. Thank God. John was sneaky. Acting like he was not going to give him . . . and then . . . oh hell. Not heroin. Not anything but run of the mill, pedestrian Ativan. . . lots of Ativan . . . he felt his eyelids get very heavy. He struggled to keep them open because he still had a lot to say . . . he felt John’s hand on his chest. Heard John’s voice in his ear. “That’s it, just go to sleep. I’ll be right here, don’t worry . . . .”

He wasn’t worried. He felt calm and relaxed. He wondered if John’s hand on his chest could be the cure for . . . everything. He smiled to himself and closed his eyes.

 

**********

 

John stood at the window, sipping a hot cup of tea. First hot cup since . . . since it had all started. He looked over to the bed. Sherlock had been asleep for a couple of hours. He was curled on his side, his arm hanging out of the blanket, the antibiotics and anti-nausea meds seemed to finally be working. Greg was lying beside him, fist tucked under his chin, snoring. John wished he had a camera. It would make an interesting Christmas card.

John’s heart clutched when he thought of Christmas. Would they ever get there? He sighed and watched a taxi turn the corner onto Northumberland. _Welcome to London_. It seemed like another lifetime when he’d followed Sherlock over rooftops and down back alleys. He sighed and turned from the window. Walked over to the bed and checked the IV for the hundredth time. Felt Sherlock’s pulse. Sherlock stirred and he moved his hand to his shoulder. Bent down and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. He felt cool. His mother knew what she was talking about. Better than a thermometer.

He’d said that to Sherlock when he’d done it the last time - pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead - the first time. He didn’t know how they’d ever get that back - a shared moment, a drunken lean, nose to nose, a hand lingering just this side of too long on a thigh.

They’d been out celebrating with Lestrade. Three pints and two shots later, they were back at 221B, trying to convince themselves it was all a very bad idea.

_“Then what happens?” Sherlock leaned too close. “Your blog becomes the Adventures of the Shagging Detectives?”_

_John snorted. “I don’t mind.” He kissed Sherlock on the forehead._

_Sherlock pulled back and frowned at him._

_“What?” John held up his hands. “S’what my mother does.”_

_“Really, John? Do tell.”_

_“No, you twat. She takes my temperature.” John sat back in his chair._

_“So what’s my temperature?”_

_“Oh you’re hot. Very hot.” John ignored all the warnings echoing in his ears, leaned forward._

_Sherlock moved closer and just like that they were kissing. John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders to steady himself and Sherlock shoved him back into his chair. John couldn’t breathe but he couldn’t tell if it was from the weight of Sherlock on his chest, or the weight of what Sherlock on his chest meant. He ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, pulling him closer and decided it didn’t matter._

_They stumbled to Sherlock’s bed and fell together. Fell apart. Floated away. For twenty minutes nothing else mattered and a singular thought – that this was always supposed to happen – swirled down and melted into the rhythm of Sherlock’s hands kneading his back, his legs wrapped around him, thrusting against him, his mind finally quiet when his body tensed and they pitched against each other, desperately fighting to stay afloat, even as gravity and biology pulled them back to earth. Broken in pieces, but completely whole._

 

Two days later, Sherlock had decided to go get milk and now here they were. Hanging off the edge of a cliff. He knew the odds, had heard enough stories, seen enough cases. He wasn’t naïve. But the memory of those moments gave him just a sliver of confidence, a glimmer of hope. He reached for his tea, which had gone cold again, and hoped a glimmer would be enough. For all of them.


	6. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade tries to get information about what happened out of Sherlock - who can't remember. Which scares them both.

Sherlock heard voices. _John –exhausted, tense, too much garlic. And Lestrade – even more exhausted, too much coffee, worried._ They were arguing. He slowed his breathing, to make sure they’d think he was still asleep. He probably was still asleep. As the drugs leeched out of his body, his dreams had become more and more real. At the same time his reality became more and more dreamlike. He almost smiled at his clever wordplay – in his defense, whatever they were giving him to combat the withdrawal, the nausea, the madness, made him fairly . . . cozy.

“I don’t care if he’s got the bloody map of England in there, he’s too weak.”

“He’s stronger than you think. And if we want a fair chance in hell of leaving this place, we’ve got to find out what happened to him.”

Him . . . _ah him_. They were arguing about him. _He, him, me, myself, moi._ But why would they care if he had a map of England. Surely Angelo could find a London A-Z . . .

“John, the detective inspector is right. We need that information.”

Oh, bollocks. _Mycroft – cake for breakfast, concerned, new housekeeper._

“I am his doctor. And I say we wait. He’s barely been coherent for more than an hour at a time. Just what do you think he’s going to tell us?”

“Really, John?”

Sherlock noticed Mycroft’s drawl lengthened when he was trying to be condescending and polite at the same time. He must remember that for the next time they tangled.

“John, you know we have to do this. He’ll be okay.”

_Ah, Lestrade . . . idiot. But nice._

He heard John walk toward the bed. Felt John’s hand on his forehead. _Nice._ John’s fingers circled his wrist. _Sweet._

“I think he’s awake.”

“I am not awake. My eyes are closed.”

“You’re smiling, Sherlock.” John leaned close to his ear. “You okay?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Are you waking me up to tell me you’ve got what I need?”

John sputtered and dropped Sherlock’s hand. “I don’t think . . .”

“He’s talking about drugs, John.” Mycroft walked over to the bed. “Sherlock, I’m taking John out for a bit. Lestrade will stay with you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again. _Lestrade. Great. No chance of turning him._ “I need John.”

Greg snorted. “You need John because you think you can convince him to get you drugs.”

“I wouldn’t get him . . .”

Mycroft pushed John towards the door. “We will be back in an hour.”

John stopped at the door. Looked at Sherlock. “Okay?”

Sherlock felt something ping in his chest. John looked . . . stressed. Tired. Beautiful. Hell. _Must be the drugs. No. The lack of drugs. Was that a new jumper? Can I kiss you . . ._

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes, John. I’m fine. You should go. I’m sure Lestrade has many questions for me.” Sherlock closed his eyes again. Tried to imagine other things besides John’s lips.

When he opened them, John and Mycroft were gone and Lestrade stood above him.

“Think you can sit?”

“Why?”

“Because, Sherlock, you need to move around. I know John means well, but he’s a bit of a hen. You could sit for a bit, maybe have a wash . . .”

 

It took an hour, but Sherlock had a shower, a cup of strong black coffee, and three butter tarts. He sat in one of the hard back chairs, hands on his knees, staring at the wall. Trying to determine if the skittering insects on his back were a side effect of the drugs or a side effect of the drugs he was taking for the drugs.

Greg brought him another cup of coffee and pulled up a chair. Sat staring at him for a moment, sipping his coffee.

**“** Your interrogation pose?” Sherlock matched sips of coffee.

Greg smiled. “Just gathering my thoughts.”

“I guess there’s no chance I can talk you into running a little errand for me?”

“Don’t waste your breath. As I’ve told John a dozen times this week, this is not my first turn around the dance floor.”

“Oh, we’re dancing?”

Greg sat the coffee cup on the floor next to the chair and leaned forward, his knees touching Sherlock’s. “No dancing. Just talking. You know what I need to know.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair, stared at a spot on the wall above Greg’s head. “I don’t remember.”

“Yes you do. You remember everything.”

“I was drugged.”

Greg kept his gaze on Sherlock’s face. “You’ve been drugged before.”

“Not like this.” Sherlock crossed his arms in front of him.

“Sherlock, what happened? Why don’t you want to remember?”

“Not want, can’t. Cannot.”

“Then go to your mind palace – you know it’s in there. An address, a name, something we can use.”

“No.”

“If you’re holding out, thinking I’m going to fold-“

“NO.” Sherlock’s voice rose and he leaned forward. “No mind palace. I can’t. No.”

Greg moved back, surprised. “Okay, then. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Sherlock rubbed his palms against his legs.

Greg reached over and put his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Sherlock, take a breath. We can just talk.”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. Took measured breaths until he heard Greg’s voice.

“So when you were in the basement, how many people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sherlock, how many people?”

“I was blindfolded.”

“Okay, so how many voices – you can tell me that right?”

Sherlock sighed. How many? Three, four . . . “Three, maybe four.”

Greg frowned. “Okay, so what else?”

“I don’t know what else.”

“Yes you do.”

“I can’t remember.” Sherlock’s voice rose again. Panic joined the insects scrambling up his back. “Do you understand what that means?”

Greg sighed. “Means you’re human.”

“Human?”

“You’re reacting like everyone else reacts who’s been through this kind of trauma. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Sherlock tried to take a deep breath, but the panic was making its way up his chest, tightening around his lungs. He couldn’t let it take over . . . with a strangled shout, he threw the coffee cup against the wall behind Greg’s head. It shattered and splattered. Sherlock stared at the drip pattern and managed to get his breathing under control.

Greg shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, so you got that out of your system.”

Sherlock looked at him. “Please . . . I do believe I could remember if I just had . . .”

“Three voices you said – accents?”

“I don’t know. But if I only had a . . .”

“English? Albanian, maybe? Did any of them have names?”

“Please, Greg . . .”

Greg stopped talking.

Sherlock looked at him. “What?”

“That was low, even for you.”

“What?”

“Greg?”

“Yes, Greg. You know you’ve done it before . . . just a little bump . . .”

Greg stood. “Don’t start with me. It’s not going to happen. Regardless of what you call me.”

Sherlock stood. “You know I’m right, though.”

“I know you’re a fucking nightmare.”

Sherlock took a step toward Greg. “Come on, you know how this works . . .” He moved closer. “I’ll do anything.”

Greg took a step back. “Sherlock, stop it. You know it won’t work.”

“It worked once.”

“Then you know why it won’t work again.” Greg took a step to the right and circled around Sherlock’s chair. “Now, can you act like a grownup for just a minute?”

Sherlock turned around. Held out both his hands, palms up. “I will beg if I have to. A particular kink of yours if I recall . . .”

Greg scrubbed his face. “You’re such a dick sometimes.” He frowned and shook his head. “You understand your reluctance to talk to me is putting John in danger?”

Sherlock stopped moving. “What do you mean?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah, knew that one’d get ya.” He moved a step closer to Sherlock. “I mean, every day we don’t catch these bastards, the price on John’s head goes up. Now I know you don’t care about yourself, but for God’s sake, can’t you try to help me for John?”

Sherlock sat back down in the chair. Fuck. He needed to save John. He’d forgotten that detail. Or he’d deleted that detail in his all-consuming need to convince Greg to go find him a needle. A fix. But he wasn’t lying when he said he couldn’t go back to his mind palace. Wouldn’t go back. Back to the place where John died, over and over and over again.

“Sherlock, tell me.”

Sherlock looked up. If anyone might understand, it would probably be Lestrade. Greg. “If I try to remember – you have to promise nothing I say leaves this room.”

”You have to ask?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I know. Sorry.”

“First Greg, now sorry – you’re starting to really scare me here.” Greg sat back down in the chair. “You want me to ask you questions?”

“No, just . . . just . . . be there.”

Greg nodded and Sherlock closed his eyes. For a moment he thought he might throw up. He thought his heart might stop. But then the fog cleared a bit and he moved into a hallway. He drew a sharp breath when he saw that the walls and ceiling were covered in graffiti. Angry slashes of red and black paint. The word John scrawled over and over. He leaned against a wall. He hadn’t done this. Who, then? _Who indeed, dumbass. Thought you’d never come back._ He ignored the voice and opened the door to his right. He stepped into the room and closed the door. Walked to the window. Flames shot out of the floor, peeling the wallpaper, sparked all around him. He curled his fingers into his palms, digging his nails into his flesh, trying to remain alert as the smoke and heat rose around him. _It’s getting’ hot in here, so take off all your clothes . . ._

“Who are you?” He whispered and turned toward the voice.

“Forget me already?” John stood, covered in blood. “You know you’re burning alive, right?”

“John . . . no . . .” Sherlock stumbled against the window. “I have to save you.”

John laughed. “You killed me. Remember? Why can’t you remember? Don’t you want to remember?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He willed himself into another room. Empty. No graffiti. No windows. One grey file cabinet. Locked. He felt in the pocket of his robe and found the key. Opened the top drawer.

“Too late, Sherlock. I’m dead already.” John appeared at his elbow, peering into the file. “Although that little fact might have saved me. Shame your beautiful mind has dissolved into gelatin. Could have used it before you got me killed.”

Sherlock grabbed the file and turned swiftly. “You are not dead.” He ran out of the room and down another hall. Out to a garden. Dogs were barking. A lawn mower roared in his ear. His mother walked up to him and slapped him across the face. _Naughty boy._ He opened his eyes . . .

“Sherlock!”

He was on the floor on his back. Greg knelt beside him, shaking his shoulders.

“Come on, Sherlock!”

Sherlock grabbed Greg’s arm. “I’m fine. Fine.”

Greg rocked back on his heels. “What the fuck was going on in there?” He stood and offered his hand. Sherlock reached up and managed to pull himself off the floor and Greg guided him to the bed. Sherlock rolled onto his side and lay quiet for a minute, breathing. Thinking.

He turned back to Greg. “Pen and paper.”

Greg raised an eyebrow.

“I’m only going to be able to do this once. And I probably won’t remember after.”

Greg nodded, found a pen in his pocket and grabbed a take away menu from the bureau. Pulled the chair close to the bed. “Okay, go.”

Sherlock laid his arm over his eyes and began speaking. Softly at first, but as he forced himself to recall each detail, his voice grew stronger, more determined. He had managed to drag the file out onto the edge of his memories – mind palace adjacent he liked to call it – and was able to fill in most of the details without having to climb the steps into . . . he could see a dark figure at one of the windows, flames glowing behind him. He stopped, frozen by the thought that he might never get it back – his mind, his memories, his life. Greg reached out and touched his arm, and he continued. After about ten minutes, his voice raw, his body trembling with fatigue, Greg put his hand on his chest.

“That’s good for now. You need to rest.”

Sherlock nodded. “Enough?”

Greg scanned his notes. “I think so. If Mycroft can’t fix this now, no one can.” He stood. “You need anything?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean.”

“Tea.” Sherlock sighed. “Where’s John?”

“Mycroft nicked him – remember?”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, of course I remember. I mean, where do you think they went?”

Greg pulled out his mobile. “He’s _your_ brother. I’m supposed to call when we’re done.” Greg looked down at Sherlock. “Are we done? Nothing else you need to tell me? Like what exactly is going on in that head of yours?”

“We’re done.” Sherlock said. He just hoped it was true.


	7. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A respite from the action - Greg and Mycroft are out catching the bad guys (fingers crossed) and John convinces Sherlock to take a bath.

John moved the chair closer to the bed, where Sherlock slept under a quilt, arm flung over his eyes. No IV. A good step. He glanced over to the plate of pasta Angelo had sent up an hour earlier – barely touched. Not a good step. When they got back to Baker Street, he would have to make sure Sherlock ate regularly. Well regularly for him. He’d lost a stone at least – on a frame that didn’t need it. He fought the urge to check his respiration again and instead reached across and took Sherlock’s arm down from his face, tucking it into his side. He brushed his hand across his forehead. Sighed.

Sherlock’s hand caught John’s wrist. “That’s not how you take a temperature, is it?” 

Startled, John almost fell across Sherlock, but caught himself, pulled his hand away, and stood.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Now what would your mother say?”

“You’re feeling better.”

“How would you know?” Sherlock patted the blanket. “Come here.”

 _Feeling much better,_ John thought. He stood still for a moment, deciding.

“Oh for God’s sake, John, make up your mind. This is either a ruse to render you unconscious so I can slip away for a quick fix, or a distraction from the relentless pain drilling through every joint in my body.” Sherlock frowned and turned away from John. “Regardless, I am freezing and feverish. Should I call Lestrade?”

“Well, that’s it, you’re cured. Back to being the world’s biggest tit. My job is done here.” John turned and walked toward the bathroom. 

“Where you going?” 

John stopped. He recognized that voice. Sherlock was definitely feeling . . . more himself. He smiled and turned. “Fancy a bath?” He watched Sherlock take in the sentence, register its various meanings, mull, frown, and look back at John.

“It’s been a couple of days, Sherlock. Might take the edge off the fever. Soothe those joints.” 

“Well, yes, well, that’d be . . . fine.” Sherlock stared at John for a moment more, pulled down the quilt and swung his legs off the bed. 

John took a step toward Sherlock but stopped. Greg had told him not to hover. At the time he had been a bit offended, but a moment later had caught himself brushing crumbs off Sherlock’s shoulder. That had been yesterday. He hadn’t heard from Greg since. After he’d spent an annoying hour with Mycroft at a pub in the Marylebone, _(Fish and chips John, really? How pedestrian),_ he and Greg had both rushed off to investigate the information Sherlock had given them. Sherlock had slept for 13 hours straight and this morning he had convinced John to take out the IV. So far so good.

Sherlock gripped the edge of the bed and winced. John took another step but Sherlock shook his head. John stayed where he was as Sherlock slowly pulled himself up to standing. He took a step, smiled at John, and promptly melted back down towards the floor. John leapt over and caught him, ducking under his shoulder, tugging him upright.

“Okay, then, come on.” 

John took Sherlock’s hand, tugging his arm around his shoulder, wrapped his other hand around his waist, and they took a small step. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned heavily against John. John saw the beads of sweat already forming on Sherlock’s forehead.

“We can stop if you want.”

“This could have been avoided if you’d just come to bed with me.” Sherlock spoke between breaths, but leaned forward.

“You are full of snark today. Give your mind a rest, will you?” 

John shifted a bit, bearing more of Sherlock’s weight against him and they made it to the bathroom door, where Sherlock unwound his arm from John and half leaned/half fell onto the edge of the tub. He wiped a shaky hand across his face.  
“There are two things I have discovered that will give my mind a rest. One of them is out of reach to me – thanks to you, Lestrade, my brother and the dozen sniffer dogs milling around downstairs-“

“It’s for your own good-”

“-and the other one is within reach, but reluctant.”

John frowned, but the meaning finally dawned on him. “Oh. Oh. _Oh._ ”

Sherlock gripped the edge of the tub and smiled. “Yes, precisely. Oh, oh, oh. Or if you prefer, _God, yes, oh god yes_. Either is good for me.”

“Sherlock, I . . . I thought in the circumstances . . . you’re not . . .” John reached over and turned the taps. The water splashed into the tub. He felt Sherlock’s hands snake around his waist. Felt the tremor in his hands.

“The circumstances are irrelevant. You’re the doctor. I am the patient. In need of comfort.” Sherlock leaned forward, resting his head on John’s chest. “Physician, heal thy . . . thy . . .” Sherlock sighed and rubbed his forehead against the fabric of John’s shirt. “You smell like fish and chips.”

John smiled, moved his hands to Sherlock’s back, rubbing his shoulders. “Yeah, well, haven’t had time to change clothes today – I’ve got this patient, never does what his doctor says . . .”

“Wait, you took Mycroft to Archie’s?”

“God no, his highness wouldn’t step foot in Archie’s. Ended up at the Golden Hind. Rubbish coffee. Cod wasn’t bad. Your brother inhaled the mushy peas.”

“Leftover adolescent need to slurp his food with a spoon.” Sherlock pushed his head into John’s chest. “Now are you going to give me a bath or not?”

John’s hands stilled on Sherlock’s back. “I’m not . . . well I can. . .”

Sherlock pulled himself up with the front of John’s jumper, placing one hand on John’s shoulder, using the other to slip out of his t-shirt. “If you promise not to take advantage of my weakened condition, you can help me out of clothes.”

John took the t-shirt from Sherlock, tossed it behind him. Didn’t move. Tried to hold steady as Sherlock used him as support while he struggled out of his pajama bottoms. Sherlock swayed, his breath coming in short gasps, but he shook the pajamas off the end of his ankle and fell into John’s chest, naked. John stumbled back against the sink, letting out a whoosh of breath at the impact. For just a moment they stood together, Sherlock’s head against John’s shoulder, his breath hot on John’s neck. John closed his eyes and let himself imagine another bathroom, a lifetime ago . . .

_“Going to be long?”_

_John heard Sherlock’s voice at the bathroom door and dropped his toothbrush. “Uh, no, I . . . just a minute.” He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same. How was that possible? He and Sherlock had what exactly? Shagged. Fucked. Tripped the light fantastic? “Bollocks.”_

_“Just let me in, John. There’s nothing I didn’t see last night.”_

_John shook his head. What in the world could have convinced him that falling into bed with Sherlock was a good idea? Oh yeah, two bottles of wine and Sherlock’s fucking cheekbones. The Adventures of the Shagging Detective, indeed._

_He leaned over and unlocked the door. Picked up his toothbrush, watched as Sherlock walked in the door, naked.  
“Sherlock!”_

_“John.” Sherlock moved behind John, wrapped his arms around his chest, pressed his lips against his neck. “I believe the proper greeting is ‘Good Morning.’ Of course I could be mistaken. Wait, no I couldn’t.” Sherlock nipped at John’s ear._

_“Good . . . good . . . god.” John leaned back into Sherlock. “Fucking hell . . .”_

_Sherlock raised his head and looked at John in the mirror. “All acceptable substitutions. But I do believe you’re repeating yourself.” He bent down and trailed his lips along John’s collarbone._

_John closed his eyes and clutched the sink with both hands. He couldn’t think with Sherlock’s lips on his . . .was this the new morning ritual? He was hard already and it wasn’t even 8 am. But, they hadn’t talked about last night – about what it meant – about what they were doing-_

_“Oh for fuck’s sake, John. Shut up! We can talk after I have you here on the lino.” Sherlock tugged John from the sink and turned him around. John watched Sherlock’s face as he took in John’s obvious erection. His eyebrow rose and he smiled. Licked his lips. John wondered if he could survive Sherlock Holmes the seducer._

_“Just wait, wait a minute, Sherlock.”_

_“It might only take a minute, John. You look rather . . . eager.” Sherlock took a step and pressed against John’s chest, his own erection poking against John’s stomach. He leaned over and whispered in John’s ear. “I don’t want to force you.”_

_A strangled chuckle forced its way out of John’s throat. “No, that would be . . . fuuck.” Any other coherent thought floated to the ceiling as Sherlock reached between them, tugging John’s cock free and sliding his fingers up and down, slowly._

_John’s legs almost gave out and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. Forced his mouth open, tasted toothpaste and coffee. For a minute he was distracted, wondering how long Sherlock had been up – coffee instead of tea? It was only 7:30 . . . this was . . .and then all thoughts disappeared as Sherlock dropped to his knees and took the length of him in his mouth, licking and sucking and . . ._

_He came in a minute, his hands twisted in Sherlock’s hair, his hips bucking, a long guttural moan escaping his mouth. He fell back, his bare ass pressed against the cold sink._

_Sherlock leaned over, wiped his mouth on a bath towel and, using John as support, stood, his erection even bigger, if that was possible. John’s own cock twitched at the sight. He shoved himself off the sink and fell against Sherlock, who stumbled back, hitting his calves on the toilet, and they both awkwardly slid downward until Sherlock sat against the door, his legs splayed, and John knelt between his legs and tried to remember everything he had ever heard/read/experienced about the best blow jobs. He knew he was doing it right when Sherlock banged his head back against the door, grabbed John’s head in his hands and shouted, “Fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck, Johhhnn,” as he came, lifting his hips off the floor._

_Everything got a little fuzzy. John slid down, resting his head on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s head lolled to one side, his hands making lazy circles on John’s arm, which was flung over Sherlock’s thigh. They stayed that way for a long time. John finally moved an arm and Sherlock pulled him closer and he laid his head on Sherlock’s chest, listening to his heart slowing down, his breaths hot against the top of his head. It was perfect. It was a bit fucked up. But it was perfect._

_“God, I love-"_

_“Oh no you don’t . . .” Sherlock shoved John off his chest._

_“What?”_

_“Professions of love after a single blow job? Really John?”_

_“I wasn’t . . .” John twisted around and looked at Sherlock. “This. I was saying I love this. This.” He waved his hand around the bathroom. “I could get used to this.”_

_Sherlock looked surprised, but then the mask fell back into place. “This was unusual. I am never up this early.”_

_John shook his head. “Maybe we should talk.”_

_“I think we should get dressed. Mrs. Hudson will be up here soon.”_

_“Well she won’t just walk into the bathroom.”_

_“Won’t she? She’ll want proof. Although I do believe Lestrade won the pot.”_

_John scrubbed his face, pressed his hands against the floor, and got up to his knees. “What in the hell are you talking about?”_

_Sherlock reached around for the doorknob and pulled himself up. “Come on, John, surely you know about the wager.”_

_“Wager?” John stood and tugged his pajama bottoms up over his hip. “What kind of wager?”_

_“The wager as to when our little blog would indeed become the Adventures of the Shagging Detective and his well-hung Watson.” Sherlock pulled John against him. “And I do believe Lestrade had this weekend. Lucky guess, really. Mrs. Hudson was out months ago – she was very optimistic. Of course Donovan’s “when hell freezes over” was a personal favorite of mine.”_

_“What? They bet when we would . . .’_

_“Yes.”_

_“How could they . . . I didn’t even know . . .”_

_Sherlock kissed John hard on the lips. “Oh you knew, John. You just chose to ignore. As usual. Thank god for Angelo and his magic candles. I am not known for patience.” Sherlock placed a hand against John’s cheek. “Breakfast I think.” He turned and opened the door, leaving John leaning heavily against the sink, his head spinning, half hard again, his toothbrush nowhere to be found . . ._

 

The splash of water against his face startled him. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock carefully lowering himself into the tub. He reached over to steady him, but Sherlock swatted his hand away. 

“I can certainly get myself into the tub, John.” 

John scrubbed his face. It exhausted him thinking about how they had gotten from the bathroom at 221B to this bathroom, in this horrid little room above Angelo’s. He watched as Sherlock gingerly lowered his arms, still a mess of track marks and bruises, into the warm water. Sherlock hissed as the water touched the wounds. John’s chest felt tight as he thought of those men, injecting Sherlock over and over. He knew if he was ever in the same room with any of them . . . his face felt hot and he could feel his heart beat faster as he imagined a thousand ways to kill them, inch by inch.

He heard the water running and looked up the see Sherlock turning the tap on full blast. Hot. Sherlock pulled his knees up against his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his forehead on his knees. He was shivering a bit and he sighed, trailing his fingers in the water.

John wanted to throw something. Kill someone. He recognized these feelings. He had become intimately acquainted with this rolling murderous rage when he was in Afghanistan. People dying all around him for no good goddamn reason. That, more than the fear and the violence, was what had sent him to Ella Thompson in the first place. And now someone had done this to Sherlock. And all he could do was . . .

“Wash my back, John.” 

It was more plea than command. John wasn’t even sure he had heard correctly. Sherlock hadn’t moved, still shivering, still breathing. But he took a washcloth, knelt down, and soaked the cloth under the hot water. Sherlock flinched when he put it against his back, but then sighed and his shoulders relaxed. John sat on the edge of the tub, making circles on Sherlock’s back. He massaged Sherlock’s shoulder with his other hand, kneading the flesh. He noticed a line of raised bumps. Surely they didn’t inject him – no – these were bites. He lifted the washcloth and looked at the rest of Sherlock’s back. Little red bites dotted his spine. _What the hell?_

“Distracted, John? Thinking about the last time we were naked in the bathroom?” Sherlock raised his head when John didn’t answer. “John?”

John traced the bites with his finger. “How did you get these . . .”

Sherlock sighed. “Fleas, I think. Not exactly the Savoy. Room service was rubbish.” Sherlock smirked, but John felt the shudder underneath.

Fleas? Where the hell had they kept him? He realized he didn’t know. Although they had the address and the names of the main players, all he really knew that was not medical was something about SpongeBob and cheese. 

“We should put something on these. Stop them from itching.” John began rubbing again, trying not to think about all the things he didn’t know.

“Wouldn’t matter. Everything itches. Side effect, you know.” Sherlock reached over and turned on the tap again. “It’s getting cold.”

John’s chest grew tight again. He felt helpless. All he wanted to do was to take Sherlock far away from here, far away from the pain and the withdrawal and the memories of whatever hell he had been put through. And all he could do was wash his back. Take his temperature. Make his tea.

He stood suddenly. “I have to . . .” He opened the bathroom door. He had to get out of there. He couldn’t breathe. He just kept seeing Sherlock, lying naked on the floor, a big man tying his left arm and his right arm, injecting him, torturing him. He bent over and tried to breathe.

“John, it’s cold with the door open . . . John!”

John heard splashing and tried to stand up straight. He couldn’t. He dropped to a knee as the familiar symptoms of a full blown panic attack overcame him. He rolled into a ball, pulling his legs to his chest, and willed himself to keep breathing. He really didn’t need to pass out here with Sherlock in the tub. He recited the alphabet forwards and backwards. He felt his heart slow down just a beat or two. The rush in his ears subsided a bit and he heard more splashing and a string of curses from the bathroom.

“John!” Sherlock appeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist. “What the hell?”

John raised a hand. That was the extent of his energy. Sherlock would have to suss this one out himself. The doctor had become the patient. Somewhere deep, far away from the nerve endings that were threatening to stop his heart, he thought it was a bit funny. He and Sherlock locked in an endless dance – I save you, you save me, I save you, you save me. But who was going to save them now?

Sherlock stumbled over to John and John felt him shake his shoulders.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and was still for a moment. He sank to the ground next to John, his towel slipping down below his hips, leaning on one arm. “Oh, panic attack. You scared the hell out of me.”

John could hear Sherlock’s ragged breaths and tried to concentrate on them, match them with his own breathing, anything to clear the fog and unclench his muscles. He felt Sherlock’s hand on his back, rubbing. Heard Sherlock’s voice in his ear, soothing, whispering. Not bad. Usually Sherlock’s bedside manner was all kind of shite, but this was . . . helping. He listened to the timbre in Sherlock’s voice and his breathing slowed and Sherlock sat down beside him and his head was lifted into Sherlock’s lap and he clung to Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock reached over and tugged the quilt off the bed, spreading it over both of them. Sherlock spoke in low tones, describing each of their last three cases in vivid detail. Odd choice, John thought, but it did the trick. Murder as lullaby. John snorted at the image and Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around John and they drifted off together.

Neither one noticed the figure in the shadows.


	8. The Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sherlock and John prevail, Mycroft loses his cool, Greg maintains his, and Angelo brings the cannoli.

It had been a satisfying dream. He and John back at Baker Street, bacteria growing rapidly in the petri dish, fresh butter tarts at his elbow, John in the chair, banging away on his laptop, writing up another case in his hyperbolic prose. _The Crooked Van? Really, John?_ So when he was yanked back into reality by hands he recognized, by voices he’d hoped to never hear again, he was understandably confused.

“Look at that, he found his boyfriend after all.”

Sherlock reached for John, but hands were pulling him away. He opened his eyes to see SpongeBob jabbing a needle into John’s neck and he lunged forward. “John!”

SpongeBob punched him in the face. He fell backwards and rolled, his mind jumping five steps ahead to where he could break every vertebra in SpongeBob’s neck and then falling back five steps to where he realized he could barely lift his head off the stained carpet. He opened his eyes as SpongeBob dragged a semi-conscious John to a chair and lashed his arms behind him.

 _No, no, no, this cannot be happening again_. He struggled to get to his feet, but the other man ( _KnuckleCracker? Tarek? Is that the man in the front seat? Tarek? )_ grabbed him and hauled him to the bed, shoving him roughly against the headboard.

Part of his brain told him to disappear into his mind palace. He knew what was coming next. A needle. A rush. Oblivion. He shook his head and rolled onto his back.

“Leave John alone.” He concentrated on Tarek, the one apparently calling the shots, the one with the brother and the vendetta and the gambling habit _(and the cheating wife, and the shellfish allergy, and the impotence)._

“Stop it, stop it.” He was not going to be able to get John out of this situation if his mind continued to make irrelevant deductions.

“Sherlock, s’ok . . .”

He turned to see John struggling against the ropes at his wrists.

“I’m okay.” John nodded. Sherlock didn’t believe him.

SpongeBob walked over and punched John in the stomach. Sherlock’s stomach rolled.

“You will regret the day you were born for that one.” Sherlock looked at John, who was struggling to breathe.

SpongeBob walked toward Sherlock and held out his hand. Sherlock raised his chin. Something gleamed in SpongeBob’s hand. A needle. He closed his eyes. “No, please.” Sherlock struggled to sit up. “It won’t do any good now. I’m clean.”

“Not for long.” Tarek joined SpongeBob at the bed. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and held it still as SpongeBob wrapped a rubber tube around his bicep.

Sherlock struggled, but it didn’t make a difference. His body shook and his mouth watered. Biological responses he couldn’t control. For a moment he couldn’t tell if they were holding his arm or he was holding it out to them. He took a last look at John, who was staring at him.

“Go to your mind palace,” John wheezed.

Sherlock barely made out the words as John repeated them.

Sherlock . . . . mind . . . palace.” John’s head fell forward and he was quiet.

Sherlock felt like laughing. Dear, dear John. If only he knew, if only there had been time to tell him, to make him understand the worthless wasteland his mind palace had become. There was no way he could return there.

He turned away from John and watched as SpongeBob lifted the syringe, plunged out a bit, flicked the needle, and felt his arm for a vein. He doubted they could find any vein that hadn’t been plundered already, but then he felt the sting, the warmth and his body collapsed onto the bed, giving in. Giving up.

*****

John heard mumbled voices and smelled cigarette smoke. He cracked one eye open and noticed long shadows stretched across the carpet. He’d spent so much time in this room he could tell the time of day by the shifting sun through the window. He calculated he’d been out about 2 hours. He tilted his head a bit and saw two men sitting at the table by the window, both staring at their phones. He tried not to move too much as he looked to his right. Sherlock was curled in the bed. He heard his laboured breathing, watched his leg twitch. Saw a syringe on the floor by the bed. Fuck fuck fuck. They had dosed him, too. _With what?_

He closed his eyes when he saw that the bigger man – arsehole # 1 he reckoned – had pushed away from the table and was turning toward the bed.

“What I don’t understand is why we don’t kill these poofters and get out of here? Isn’t that what your brother wants? Plus the longer we stay here, the more likely someone else shows up.”

“We will kill them – be patient. Does your phone take pictures?” The other man – arsehole #2 – stood.

“Of course. Here.” #1 tossed a phone to #2 who walked over to the bed and tugged Sherlock onto his back.

Sherlock moaned and covered his eyes. That’s when John saw the rubber tube wrapped around his arm. He struggled not to make any more movements, but he couldn’t breathe. His knew his own ribs were bruised, probably broken. That and the fact that he needed to get up and kill these men, right now, was restricting his airway. He shut his eyes and concentrated on pushing oxygen into his lungs.

When he opened them again, he saw that the other man had walked over to the bed, holding another syringe in his hand.

“Now what, Tarek? Recording this for posterity? You got a kill book somewhere?”

The man called Tarek turned around and slapped the other man across the face. “You talk too much, Avni – hold him up. I need a picture for his brother.” Tarek reached for Sherlock’s arm.

Avni didn’t move. “His brother? Jesus, Tarek. Tell me you’re not using him as bait – I want no part of his brother. Isuf would not approve of this. Think, man. In and out. Quick and clean.”

“His brother is the reason my brother is in prison. His brother broke a vow. His brother sent him,” Tarek pulled Sherlock’s head up by his hair, “to destroy our business.”

Tarek pointed the camera at Sherlock’s face. John saw that Sherlock’s eyes were unfocused. The flash caused him to twist back against the hands holding him up. Tarek slapped him and Sherlock sank back onto the bed.

John pulled hard at the ropes binding his arms. If he could just get free, he could walk over and break Tarek’s neck with his bare hands. He wished he could let Sherlock know he was awake. Let him know it was going to be okay. He wished he could believe that himself.

“There.” Tarek sat down on the edge of the bed, patted Sherlock on the thigh. “Your brother will get the email and he will come here and I will kill you in front of him. And then I will kill him.”

Avni had crossed the room and was sitting back at the table, arms crossed, pouting. “What about him?” He nodded towards John.

Sherlock lurched at Tarek. “No . . . he is no . . . concern of . . . yours.”

John shut his eyes and willed Sherlock to be still. He almost had one arm out of the ropes. He watched as Tarek held Sherlock back with one hand and leaned down to pick up the syringe.

Sherlock stopped struggling and John watched him pull his arms away from Tarek, tucking them under his legs. No, breaking his neck will be too kind. He was going to have to gut him throat to dick. His chest tightened as he watched as Tarek held out the syringe and Sherlock closed his eyes and lifted his left arm. Bloody hell. He was practically asking for it. For the fix. John couldn’t stand it any longer. He used every bit of energy he had left and surged against the ropes.

“No, Sherlock, don’t.”

Everyone in the room turned toward John. He was half standing, one arm almost free of the ropes and he lunged toward the bed.

“Shoot him,” Tarek commanded, and Sherlock howled and rammed his head into Tarek’s back. Tarek tumbled to the floor and John leaped, the chair still attached and landed on Tarek’s chest, broken chair pieces scattering around them. Sherlock rolled off the bed and crawled toward the needle that had flown out of Tarek’s hand.

Avni reached for his gun on the table, whirled around and aimed at John, who was now on top of Tarek, using his head to pound Tarek’s nose into pulp. Avni swung his gun towards Sherlock, who was at the end of the bed.

“Sherlock, get down!” John shouted and wrapped the rope around Tarek’s neck.

“Shoot them, shoot them,” Tarek howled with his last bit of air. He struggled against the rope and passed out.

John heard a shot. “Sherlock!” He was out of his head, trying to untangle from the chair and the ropes, trying to get to Sherlock. “Sherlock!” He turned back to Avni and watched in shock as the big man dropped the gun and crumbled to the ground, a bullet hole in his forehead. He was confused. How did Sherlock get a gun? He turned back and saw that Sherlock hadn’t moved. He lay crumpled against the end of the bed.

He untangled himself from Tarek and dragged the pieces of chair with him towards Sherlock. He felt Sherlock’s pulse, his chest, his head. No blood. “Fuck, I thought he shot you.” He pulled Sherlock to his chest and watched the syringe fall out of Sherlock’s palm, unused.

There was a large boom and he turned toward the door as Greg Lestrade, in full riot gear, rushed through, gun drawn. He swept the room with a glance and pressed the mic at his collar. “Two down. All clear.” Lestrade looked over to John and Sherlock. “Send me an ambulance. Now!”

He leaned over and picked up the gun that had fallen next to Avni’s body. “You okay?” he said to John as he walked by Tarek towards them. He poked Tarek with his foot and the man stirred a bit. Lestrade lifted him from the floor, punched him in the face, and let him drop.

John kept his hand on Sherlock’s chest as Greg joined them. “They dosed him. I don’t know how much, I don’t know how long.”

“How long is about four hours. Angelo missed his 2 o’clock call. Mycroft is on his way. Is he conscious?”

John brushed Sherlock’s hair from his eyes and leaned down. “Sherlock, you with us?”

Sherlock moaned and opened an eye. “Oh hello, Lestrade. You finally decided to show up?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Yes he’s with us. Sherlock, I’ve got an ambulance on the way-“

“Not for me I hope.”

“No, for me. Bit knackered after running up the stairs and shooting the man who was about to shoot you.”

“ _You_ shot him?” John’s chest felt tight again, this time at the realization that if Lestrade had not shown up when he did, it could have all gone so wrong. He blew out a breath and rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I keep up my qualifications with you two around – never know when I’ll have to pull your arses out of the fire.”

“Jesus, Greg.” John hid his shaking hands under Sherlock’s arm. Delayed shock. Had to be.

Greg squeezed John’s shoulder. “S’okay, John. You’re safe now. We arrested the rest of the lot downstairs.”

John nodded and felt Sherlock take his hand.

Greg rubbed his hands together. “Now let’s see if I can get you untangled from this.”

Sherlock sat up a bit and let John lean against him as Greg starting unwinding and untying the rope and the chair pieces from John. John winced when he realized that some of the pieces had splintered into his arms.

“This is going to hurt a bit,” Greg warned before he pulled a 1/2 inch piece of chair out of John’s forearm. It started bleeding and Greg took the end of Sherlock’s robe and held it against the wound.

“Christ! Ow!” John jerked back into Sherlock. Sherlock held John’s head against his chest as Greg continued to untangle and untie. Picked out a dozen more pieces of wood.

The room was suddenly full of people - police officers, technicians, medics. Angelo. The medic hustled towards them, but Greg held up a hand and he stopped. Angelo didn’t stop. He rushed over and fell to his knees in front of John and Sherlock.

“Oh thank god you are all right. I was so worried. They showed up at lunch, put me and Tony in the freezer. I just knew you were dead. Thank god Josephine came looking for her afternoon cannoli or we’d still be in there – big Angelo popsicle.” He finally stopped talking and leaned over and kissed Greg on the cheek. “This brave man. Just walked up the stairs and _boom_. Bye, bye bad guy.”

Greg smiled. “It wasn’t all me, Angelo – I’ve got a whole team.”

Angelo patted Greg on the arm. “Yes, and your whole team eats here tonight. On me. Anything you want, I cook. Brave, brave boy.”

Greg’s radio buzzed and he held up his hand and bent his head to listen.

_“Gemini. Gemini is in the building.”_

The room emptied as quickly as it had filled. Angelo struggled to his feet and with a wave, headed back downstairs. Greg stood and looked around the room. The other police officers had moved Tarek, who was barely conscious, to the chair by the table. He was handcuffed and an officer stood behind him.

“Gemini is go,” Greg barked into his mic and turned back to John. Scrubbed his face. Sighed. “Mycroft’s here.”

John looked at Greg. “Mycroft? Then who is Gemini . . . oh, _oh_. Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

Greg helped John and Sherlock to the bed, where they sat side by side like a pair of rag dolls. With the adrenalin quickly leaving his body, John was starting to feel the after effects of the drugs and the fight. He leaned against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock sighed. John knew neither one of them were in any shape, nor, when he glanced at Sherlock’s grim expression, any mood to deal with Mycroft the Gemini. Whatever that meant.

“Right up here, sir.” John heard voices in the hallway, then dead silence as Mycroft walked through the door.

Mycroft eyes took in the room, stopping when he saw them on the bed. John watched him hesitate, take a step towards them, but Tarek moaned, and Mycroft’s face hardened and he took two steps toward the table.

“Mycroft, he’s barely conscious. Maybe you shouldn’t . . .” Greg stepped in front of Mycroft, put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Let my guys pull him in.”

Mycroft smiled, his eyes never leaving Tarek. “I think not.” He moved past Greg and stood behind the chair at the table. Tarek looked up, frowned, and cursed in Albanian.

Mycroft brushed off the seat and sat down, elbows on the table, fingers steepled in front of him. “Yes, yes, my mother the whore. Charming.”

John felt Sherlock tense beside him and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together. He didn’t have the energy to stop Sherlock from doing whatever idiotic thing he was thinking about doing.

Greg gave a nod to the officer standing behind Tarek and the officer slipped out of the room. Greg stood at the table between Mycroft and Tarek. John watched as Greg unsnapped his gun holster. John swallowed and closed his eyes. What in the hell did Greg think Mycroft would do? Beat him over the head with an umbrella was the only thing John could think of and he knew Greg could disarm him in two seconds. Mycroft glanced back at them and John saw the look in his eyes and he was suddenly glad Greg had a gun.

Mycroft turned back to Tarek. “Your brother is unhappy with you, Tarek.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes, well, colourful vocabulary aside, I do believe your life as you know it is over.”

Tarek struggled to keep his head up. Stared defiantly at Mycroft. “You’re the one who’s over, Holmes. I will kill you and your brother. It will never be over.”

“That is what I am afraid of. And when I say afraid, I mean just the opposite. You, my friend, are headed somewhere very dark and very far away. For a very long time.” Mycroft leaned forward. “And make no mistake – it is over. For you. For your brother. For your entire criminal enterprise.”

Mycroft reached across the table and wrapped his hands around Tarek’s neck, pushing his thumbs into his throat. John was sure Greg would step in, but Greg stood still, one hand resting lightly on the butt of his gun. Mycroft lifted Tarek an inch off his seat. Tarek struggled, but Mycroft’s grip was strong.

“You are a very lucky man. I am restricted by law, by witnesses, and by my vow to always set a good example for my brother . . . “

“Oh for god’s sake, Mycroft. Don’t do anything on my account. Strangle the bastard.”

Mycroft ignored Sherlock. “But if any of these restrictions were not pressing upon me, rest assured, you would be dead.”

Tarek kicked at the table, scratching at Mycroft’s hands, gasping.

Greg took a step forward. “Mycroft . . . enough.”

Mycroft kept Tarek in his grip for another few seconds and then let him go and sat back down in the chair. Folded his arms in front of him. Took a deep breath. He held up a hand and two large men in black moved in quickly and dragged Tarek out, wheezing and gasping, still able to spit out a few curses.

Mycroft sat at the table, his head bowed. John felt Sherlock move beside him and helped him to his feet. Greg came over and put his arm around Sherlock and brought him to the table.

Sherlock sat heavily in the chair. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked up. “How many?”

Sherlock scratched at his arm. “Two, maybe three.”

“Including the one in your pocket?”

John looked on the floor where the syringe had been just a minute ago. He looked back at the table. How had Sherlock pocketed it so fast?

Sherlock withdrew the syringe out of his pocket and laid it in front of Mycroft. Mycroft picked it up, plunged the contents onto the floor, and tossed it against the wall.

“Now, do you need hospital?”

Something in Mycroft’s voice was not quite right. John stood and stumbled over to the table, the last of the rope falling to the floor.

Greg moved to help him. “John, we should take you both in. As a precaution. No telling what they did to you.”

“A rather weak solution of propofol and ketamine, I believe. Judging from John’s recovery time.” Sherlock stared at the syringe on the floor.

“And you, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice was tight.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Heroin, ketamine. Not a precise solution. Did the trick.”

John leaned against the table. “I think we’re okay, Greg.”

Mycroft let out a hollow laugh. “Oh yes, Dr. Watson, always the optimist. Disregard the weeks we just spent pulling my brother from the brink.” Mycroft stood suddenly. “I’m sorry. I should attend to other matters now.” He looked at Sherlock. “Tell me this is not a new beginning.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You want me to triple swear?”

Mycroft hit his fist on the table. John flinched. He knew there was something not quite right about Mycroft.

“I want you to stop making it so easy for people to abduct you. I want you to understand that I cannot always get here in the nick of time to save you.”

Sherlock stared at him “The nick of time is a miserable place.” He took a deep breath. “Thank you, brother.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock and for a moment no one moved. Sherlock let a whisper of a smile play across his face. Raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft took a deep breath and the moment was gone. “Quite right.” He looked at Greg. “Gregory, will you escort me to my car? There are a few . . . details we should discuss before any reports are written.”

Greg smiled and walked over to Mycroft. “Let me get these two sorted, Mycroft. We can’t just leave them up here.”

Mycroft looked around the room. “Acceptable punishment I think.”

“Punishment? Mycroft, John and I are the victims here . . .”

“Sod off, Mycroft, we can make our own way home.”

Mycroft held up a hand. “Cease the jibber jabber, both of you. A car will to take you back to Baker Street. You can make a statement tomorrow. I will dispatch what Gregory likes to call “extra muscle” until I am sure we have eliminated the rest of Budo’s a _ssociates_. Does that meet with your approval?”

Sherlock stuck his lip out, crossed his arms. “Fine. But we’ve got to make a stop.”

John sighed. “No way Sherlock. You made it this far. You don’t need it.”

“If you think there’s a dealer within ten miles who has the guts to sell to you . . .” Greg added.

“Typical, brother. Disappointing, but typical.”

Sherlock pushed himself up and walked around the three men to the door. He stopped and turned to face them. “Please, you are all such drama queens. We need to make a stop because I promised John I would pick up some milk.” He turned and walked out the door.

John laughed.

Greg looked confused. “Maybe it’s not a good idea to let him . . .”

“It’s just milk.”

“Is it?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

John moved to the door and looked back. “Yes, finally. He promised me he’d fetch that milk. Let him get the milk. Plus we’ll see if he really knows where the store is.”

He watched as Greg and Mycroft caught up. He felt like hugging them. He felt like falling over. He felt like he could sleep for weeks. He knew it wasn’t all over. But as he turned around and headed out the door and down the stairs, jumbled thoughts raced through his mind. _Sherlock is fine. We are fine. Sherlock is safe. Sherlock is . . ._

“Angelo, what good was saving me if you are just going to suffocate me?”

John heard Sherlock’s voice from the restaurant.

“Oh, Sherlock, we’re just so glad you are alive. Here take the cannoli.”

John walked into the restaurant and Angelo spotted him. “John! So good to see you.” Angelo shoved Sherlock towards him. “Here, take this boy home.”

John took a step back as Sherlock ran into him. They tipped a bit, but then John pushed Sherlock upright and smiled at him. “I’m supposed to take you home.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “So it seems.”

John put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. They walked outside and saw Anthea standing by a black sedan.

“Our ride.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A taxi would have been fine.”

John looked at the car and then back at Sherlock. “This car is fine . . . oh. I see what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“A taxi would take you to a store.”

“Of course it would.”

“You would say, _taxi take me to the nearest store. I need milk_.”

Sherlock opened the car door. “Yes, John, I am familiar with the way taxis work.”

John motioned for Sherlock to get in the car. “Yes, but you are not familiar with where the stores are.”

“Rubbish. Who doesn’t know where the stores are?”

“You.”

“John this is tedious. I have a headache . . .”

“So prove it.”

“Prove it?”

“Yes, tell the driver to stop by the store. Any Tesco will do. Even the corner shop has milk.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and climbed into the backseat. “Ha ha, you are hilarious, John.”

John smiled. “I’m right is what I am. Good thing you got kidnapped, otherwise you’d have had to admit that Sherlock Holmes the brilliant idiot has no idea where to buy milk.”

John slipped in beside Sherlock. He was almost giddy. The drugs, the action of the day, the warmth of Sherlock’s thigh against his – who knew the cause. But they were headed home. To Baker Street.

“9 Bridge Street, driver. Tesco Express I believe.” Sherlock looked at John.

“How did you . . .” John frowned and then rolled his eyes when Sherlock handed Anthea back her phone. “That’s cheating.”

“John, you said you wanted me to find a store. I found a store.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

Sherlock stopped the protest by leaning over and kissing John hard on the lips. John put his hands on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock pulled away and smiled.

“You know my methods, John. I am nothing if not resourceful.”

John sucked in a breath. “Uh, yes, well . . .”

“Right.” Sherlock turned and looked forward as the car pulled away from the kerb.

They drove for a while without speaking – the tapping of Anthea’s fingers on her Blackberry the only sound in the car. John settled his head against the seat and closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock moving beside him.

“You okay?”

Sherlock was looking out the window, rubbing his forearm. He turned back to John. “I think we need to stop at Bart’s.”

John frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock turned to John and smiled weakly. “What is wrong is that I just devised no less than three plans to ditch you and this car and escape down to a little place I know in Hackney.”

“That’s not good.” John swallowed.

“A bit.” Sherlock sighed. “London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.”

“Poetic, Sherlock. But I think a dose or two of Buprenorphine wouldn’t be uncalled for.”

Sherlock nodded and reached for John’s hand. “We can do it in the morgue.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and smiled. “Well, yes, but don’t you think medicine first?”

Sherlock frowned and then smiled. “Yes, quite.”

John leaned up and instructed the driver to stop at Bart’s. John sat back, still holding Sherlock’s hand. He felt the tremble in his fingers, saw the sweat beading on Sherlock’s forehead. Wished he could take it all away. He straightened in his seat. He would take it all away. They would do it together. Sherlock leaned his head back against the seat. It started to rain.

 

**Epilogue: Sweet Revenge**

They quietly move back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson comes back from her sister’s. Greg drowns in reams of paperwork. Mycroft carries on in the way Mycroft carries on. It is almost the same. Except it can never be.

The ache never goes away. Not completely. The bruises pale, the sickness wanes, track marks fade to freckles. Sherlock’s now gone an entire day without thinking about it. Twice. But the thrum of need always whispers back in. Relentless. Under every sentence, every step, every caress. Every raised eyebrow.

He’s tried to walk it away. Took to the streets one night, almost outran it. It caught up with him on the bank of the Thames and chased him back to Baker Street, where he stood staring up into dark windows, wondering when it had become less about stopping the ache and more about just stopping.

 John worries, but remains steadfast, a rock. They take cases, eat take-away, make love. Sherlock plays the violin until 3am and steals secret cigarettes, blowing the smoke out the bathroom window. He wears longs sleeves on the hottest London afternoon, and tries not to notice when John hides the newspaper after their story makes the front page.

They stay in bed on Sunday mornings and it is there, newspaper spread across the sheets, Sherlock curled in the crook of John’s arm, that he feels almost better. That he believes there could be a time when he will forget. His nature doesn’t allow him complete optimism, but when John rolls over and strokes his chest and kisses his throat, he lets out a long sigh and the remaining pieces of his doubt fall to the floor, forgotten.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant kiss to Susan, who suffered with me throughout. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Feel free to comment, crit, britpick . . . whatever. Words are oxygen.


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